Cybertronian Nights
by TheInamorato
Summary: A collection of stories set in post TFA Season 3 Cybertron, centered around Kaon's hottest new brothel, Inamorato, operated by the madams Arcee and Strika. Pairings: Lock/Prowl, Blackout/Barricade, Meg/SS, plus a lot of one night stands, rare pairings and G1/Bayverse/Comics imports. Plenty of kink with multiple plots and all the feels! Warnings: sticky, dubcon, noncon, drug abuse
1. A Tale of Two Femmes

A/N: This is the back story of Cybertron's first respectable brothel. It is set in the Transformers Animated universe, post Season 3 and building on the events of my completed TFA fanfic, A Time for Trust, which can be found in the favs list. You don't need to read ATFT to follow this, but it does help fill in some gaps.

This project a collaboration between antepathy, Optimus Bob, and myself (ToyzInTheAttic). Warning: we have no shame. Prepare for crack pairings, fluff, angst, adventure and all around good fun.

**A Tale of Two Femme**s _by ToyzInTheAttic_

The stint of peace across Cybertron was accepted with contentment among the Decepticon forces, or so it seemed. Even though the Autobots still maintained control over the crystal mines and therefore still had the final say over the planet's energon allotment, most of the 'cons were too burnt out on war to care for the time being. Directly following the Quintesson incident, the Decepticons took full advantage of the truce and flocked to Kaon in hopes of rebuilding some semblance of an existence.

The entire city of Kaon was centered on Megatron's Gladiatorial Arena, and was quickly becoming Cybertron's entertainment capital for both factions alike. The city was predominantly populated by Decepticons, but Autobots were generally allowed in for their willingness to dump hard-earned credits into Decepticon-run businesses. It was not uncommon that fights broke out over factional differences, but their numbers were few in comparison to how often Decepticons fought amongst themselves. None of it ever escalated to anything serious, and in all reality, the fights outside the arena were all part of the fun-filled package the city had to offer.

Megatron oversaw all of the arena's operations, mainly by delegating the tasks involved to his obedient subordinates. He never participated in the fights anymore and instead encouraged his faithful Lugnut, The Kaon Krusher, to maintain the title of champion, just as the Decepticon leader did in his day. There were very few hired fighters and those select few served as the highest and most expensive level of entertainment, scheduled specifically on weekend nights. All the other fighters were brought in on a voluntary basis and consisted of the city's working population and numerous visitors who traveled to Kaon specifically to fight.

General Strika had been relieved when word came from Megatron about the Decepticon settlement in Kaon and she had gladly accepted his invitation for her and her team to join the arena staff. Charr had become a breeding ground for nihilism and Strika's team desperately needed a change of pace. They quickly adapted into the easy lifestyle offered by Kaon and each found their place in the city, either working for the arena or for one of the surrounding businesses that catered to the arena's tourists.

The arena had a reputation to uphold in terms of its quality of fighters, so not just any bot off the street could sign up for the spotlight. There was a screening process; a series of tests to prove ones strength, technique and charisma. This was Strika's specialty; weeding out the worthy fighters from the sorry hopefuls. Her standards were high, much higher than the average audience member, so if she deemed a bot fit for an entertaining match, the spectators of said match were not disappointed.

This role earned Strika a level of respect in the arena scene. She was once esteemed for her role as General, but since there weren't any battles to remind her peers of such military prowess, her past achievements were easily forgotten. This did not surprise her. Most Decepticons lived for the moment, too involved in their own reputation to stop and appreciate that of anothers. They respected her for no other reason besides the possibility that she would deny them the ring if they dared slander her. Strika wasn't oblivious to this fact by any means, but it still bothered her how easily everything she worked for in the past could be disregarded.

In her younger cycles, before the war, she had welcomed the challenge of proving herself beyond capable in a mech-dominated scene. She eagerly accepted that, regardless of her size and power, she was required to work twice as hard with twice the outcome to be revered as an equal by her peers. She climbed the military ladder to General's rank in record time then proceeded to lead Team Charr to countless victories during the Great War.

But none of that mattered now and Strika was forced to accept that her time of greatness had come and gone. This was the reality of many Decepticons, but they masked their acknowledgement of it with the highs that came from fighting in the arena. Strika envied the fix they got from such mindless combat. She knew the ultimate high offered by the arena was the promise of defeating Lugnut and gaining a planet-wide title for oneself, but this achievement didn't interest her in the least; perhaps because, in her own way, she had already defeated Lugnut, multiple times. Her victories, if she could call them that, happened behind the scenes, where time after time, she effortlessly reduced him to a pathetic shuddering heap at her feet.

She had a gift, at least that's what Lugnut said, but she hardly saw the usefulness of it, especially since Lugnut was the only partner she's had in eons. Their interfacing was fun but it never gave her any pleasure beyond the power trip. Even that wasn't much to speak of since Lugnut always assumed a submissive role, and rarely met her needs. He was sweet, funny, sickeningly loyal, but ultimately, he was dull. After listening to story after story of Barricade's adventures with interfacing, she was well aware of the possible highs and victories attainable in the interfacing arena. Whether they could compete with battle victories was doubtful, but considering her apparent gift she couldn't help but wonder.

This particular weeknight brought Strika outside her routine and outside the city limits. Blaster & Vibes Nightclub had been taunting her curiosity for a while now. It was located outside of Kaon, which meant it wasn't safeguarded by the truce; however, it was rare that a fight would break out as the majority of the arena crowds stuck to the seedy joints inside the city. The B&V's patron makeup usually consisted of liberal Autobots, worker-class Decepticons, and undecideds, all seeking a medium of escapism. Strika fit the profile beautifully. She wasn't exactly sure what form of escape she sought but knew the need was there.

The stares she received upon entering were few and mainly do to her size being atypical of the standard femme model. This did not bother her. She was grateful for her build because of the brute advantages it gave her on the battlefield. To Strika, being petite meant offlining of boredom behind the scenes as an intelbot or medic. A fine example of this dull existence was draped pitifully on the bar directly in front of her.

The General clearly recognized the pink and white heap. She knew this Autobot was Megatron's key to near victory on planet Earth, supplying him with the necessary code to activate Omega Supreme. She also knew that this bot underwent another previous hostage situation during the war that led to a massive memory wipe from an overloading EMP blast. Given these circumstances, Strika wouldn't be surprised if this little femme harbored some bitterness to the purple insignia and became adverse to the close proximity of a Decepticon. She didn't want a confrontation, but considering the differences in their size and sobriety, she certainly wasn't intimidated by the prospect. She casually claimed the seat next to Arcee, unable to deny her intrigue at the Autobot.

Vibes perked to her newest customer. She glided over ever aloof and leaned a single elbow onto the bar. "What be your fancy, gorgeous?"

Gorgeous: not a title commonly used for the General, but welcome all the same. "Medium-grade," Strika replied with a the slightest break of her seemingly permanent frown. "Enhanced vis coolant."

The sound of Strika's voice snapped Arcee back into the land of the aware and she slowly lifted her heavy off the bar. She strained her optics to focus on the clearest of three forms of Vibes who stood before her. "Cou'I get 'nother shpritzer please?" she slurred.

Vibes shook her head with pitied amusement. "I tell you, sugar, you be done for de night. De only ting I be servin' you is straight, unrefined oil."

Arcee groaned with juvenile disappointment. "Fine, whatever."

Vibes leaned into the bar and planted a hand on her hip in a parental stance. "How you be gettin' home? Der is no way you can drive, let alone transform."

Arcee shrugged indifferently. Vibes shook her head again then swayed off to fetch the two beverages. Strika was fully engrossed in curiosity now and dared a side glance at the proper mess beside her. Arcee could feel the large femme's optics on her but could only lift her glance high enough to address a bulky maroon arm. "You're a 'con," said the pink femme, matter-of-factually.

"You are observant," replied Strika, flatly. Her first instinct was to be defensive, but the night was too young for hostility. She chose the path of compliance instead. "Does my faction bozzer you?"

Arcee fluttered her optics in surprise at the General's unexpected concern. She was gearing up for some playful hostility but instead found herself robbed of any coherent thought. "Um…ah…no."

Strika released a little tension now that the ice was broken. She had no interest in factional stand-offs tonight and questioned why she chose the seat directly next to this potential hostile. Perhaps a part of her desired to know what drove a normally respectable Autobot to such a pathetic state. There had to be a good story in there somewhere; a story that would distract the General from her day to day and potentially make for a good retelling to Lugnut tomorrow. "Vhy did you come out here? I zought Iacon had multiple establishments such as zis."

Vibes returned with the drinks, overhearing Strika's last statement and reacting with a guffaw as she served the drinks. "Ain' no club in Iacon like dis, sista. Dos uptight joints be military schmoozing ground, packed to da brim egomaniacs and dere patetic pick-up lines."

Arcee smiled at Vibes and cupped her hands over the mug filled with sludge-black liquid. "My thoughts exactly." She leaned down to sip from the mug as lifting it up would take too much effort. Her face contorted into a repulsed cringe as the flavor finally registers in her sensors. "Bleh!" She turned back to Strika and eyeballed her drink. "You wanna trade?"

The General chuckled as she lifted her drink to her prominent lips then watched the cool Autobot veteran slide off to wait on other customers. Strika was surprised to find herself already at ease in the unfamiliar surroundings. Only a couple cycles and one sip into her evening, and she found welcoming company from two Autobot femmes. She knew this club to be generally free of factional skiffs, but she at least expected underlying tension, especially toward a high-ranking officer such as herself. She had met Vibes before on the battlefield and distinctly remembered laughing victoriously into her bitter expression of defeat. She was relieved that Vibes has either wiped this experience from her memory or holds the value of customers over the sting of past grudges. This was the first meeting she'd had with the pink enigma seated next to her, however, and was itching more and more with each sip of her drink to learn the series of events that put such a fragile creature in this state. 'Slag it' she thought 'just ask'. She tipped the rest of her drink down her throat and readied the question, only to have it stunted with the creature's voice.

"Buncha hypocrites they are," Arcee grumbled. "Always goin' on 'bout doin' what's best me for without even bothering to ask what I think. They seem t'think amnesia's like post-traumatic stress...syndrome. But it's not." She managed to lift her mug and take a sloppy sip, sloshing a bit down the side of her mouth. "I've more trauma from school teaching than I do from a war I don't r'member." She arched a confident brow to Strika. "You ever have t'deal with sparklins on a regular basis? S'no picnic."

Strika found herself smiling again. "Don't imagine it is." She took note of the spilled oil still clinging to the prim pink face and instinctively raised a clunky finger to wipe it off. Her actions didn't sink in until after the fact as she felt the cool residue of the oil on her finger. She looked worriedly at Arcee for fear of breaching some untold barrier with physical contact, but relaxed when the Autobot responded with an appreciative smirk.

"Speakin' of sparklins", Arcee giggled with embarrassment, "Whatta mess I am. I apologize for my behavior."

"Do not apologize," ordered the General. "I vould behaffe much vorse if I had to put up wis ze Elite Guard bots."

"EG'll certainly drive a femme to drink." The tipsy pink femme attempted to stand up but instead tumbled into Strika's side and clutched her delicate fingers around the thick arm.

"Vhoa zere!" She tried to ignore the odd warm tingles surging up her supportive arm. "Vhere do sink you are going?"

"I need to go home now." Arcee whimpered like a little girl who strayed too deep into a forest. "Ratchet is prolly worried sick."

Strika planted the listless femme back into her chair and assumed a parental role, pointing to the mug of oil. "Not until you drink zhat. You von't effen be able to find ze exit, let alone Iacon city if you don't sober up."

The con couldn't figure out her inherent concern for this Autobot and watched with puzzlement as Arcee tilted the entire mug of oil down her petite pout, staining the sides of her face again in the process. Strika resorted to making more conversation in an effort of helping the sobering process along. "so…you don't remember any of ze var?"

Arcee slammed the mug down with accomplishment and drug her forearm across her lips; another delayed cringe and violent shudder after tasting the sludge. "Last mem'ry I have a'the war is Lockdown holding Ratchet and myself prisoner." She shook her head in disgust. "Butchu know the best part?" Her tone slid into sarcasm as she met the general's interested stare. "I woke up affer centuries of stasis only to find myself a prisoner of Megatron!" She cut loose with a bout of deranged giggling. "The Elee Guard can't protect their own for scrap!"

Strika was thoroughly entertained by hearing the Autobot bad talk her own faction. "You do not sound bozzered by zis…pattern of unfortunate effentz."

"How could I be?" The pink bot threw her arms up. "It was all outta my control." She settled back into a half-lean on the bar, attention fully locked on the towering femme. "They think I need therapy…they won't let me work until I undergo 'rehabilitation'." She slammed her fist on the bar. "Do you have any idea how demeaning that is? It's bad enough to deal with the lingering bigotry toward femmes in our society, but to be treated as incompetent and helpless…" Her rant trailed off as she mulled over her own words then her candy-striped shoulders sank in defeat. "I sometimes wish I never woke up."

The general was struck by the femme's moodiness but before she could muster up some sympathetic words, she noticed a green and black bounty hunter slither his spiked body up to the bar. Having just learned of this mech's negative role in the femme's life, the General's optics widened at the potential drama at stake. Without a second thought, she left her seat and strategically positioned herself on the opposite side of Arcee, creating an impenetrable wall between the bounty hunter and his ex-quarry.

This action bumped Lockdown off his footing, causing him to stumble. He jerked his body around to confront his assaulter who, to his surprise, towered considerably over him.

Arcee was bewildered by the General's actions and swiveled to cast her stare onto the femme's back. "Di—Did I say something wrong?"

Lockdown was not a bot intimidated by size. He eyeballed the femme with quizzical irritation, desperate to interpret her intentions. He finally enlightened to the situation upon hearing the delicate feminine vocals emerging from behind the massive tankbot. He leaned back into the bar and grinned deviously.

"Don't." Strika bored her red optics into the mismatched bot. That was all the warning she would give. She then turned back around to face Arcee. "You need to leaff zis place." She gently glided the confused pink femme from her seat. "Come. I take you to local recharge establishment."

Vibes appeared onto the scene, pinning Lockdown with a look of warning then shifting a skeptical expression to Strika. "Can you be trusted?"

Strika knew it was a rhetorical question, asked merely for show. There was an implied level of trust between Cybertronian femmes that could, on rare occasions, breach the barriers of faction. Strika simply responded with a sincere nod then escorted the wavering pink femme out the door.

Vibes turned back to the bounty hunter with a disapproving look. "Why you scare away my customers?"

Arcee's petite frame just barely fit into the cab of Strika's alt-mode. The pair journeyed down the main highway seeking the first neon lit inn that didn't scream cesspool, which was practically impossible to find this far out from Iacon. Arcee was slowly sobering up and made it a point to thank Strika every few cycles. She insisted she was capable of transforming and finding her way back home, but Strika wouldn't have it. The General had seen her fair share of drunks in the arena scene and knew too well the amount of time a bot needed to regain their driving skills.

A neon sign with a respectable amount of bulbs still lit came into view and Strika settled on the inn it advertised as her passenger's drop-off point. Babysitting a drunken Autobot was not her intended plan of action tonight, but oddly enough, she didn't mind. She enjoyed their conversation during the trek down the highway. Despite their vast differences, they were both still femmes and could relate to the struggles that presented themselves daily to their model. They even ventured onto the topic of interfacing: Arcee expressed her discontent for Ratchet's traditionally dull methods and Strika complained about the little effort put forth from Lugnut.

Arcee laid casually across the bench seat, leaning her heavy head into her hand. "…I mean, how do you tell a mech who's good to you in every other way imaginable, that he fails at 'facin'?"

Strika laughed, her dashboard light flashing in sync to her vocals. "I know exactly vhat you mean. Lugnut is wery sveet but he doesn't understand zat verbal praise is not enough. I haffe physical needs too, but he usually falls into stasis after ze first offerload, too exhausted from fighting to comprehend 'facin as a two-vay street."

Arcee was comforted by her company's understanding and continued with her venting. "He acts as though a new position would break me in two and frag my hard drive, which in all honesty sounds hotter than what he has to offer. He doesn't let me take the control either, no matter how hard I try. He says 'it's not me' and 'I must be reacting from some random amnesia-induced glitching."

Strika replied curiously. "Shouldn't a medic be attuned to a bot's pleasure sensors?"

"One would think, but not when the medic plays his 'I'm too old for this' card at every turn. I mean, hell…I'm almost as old as he is!"

They pulled up to the dilapidated building which contrasted immensely from how the highway sign boasted it. Arcee dropped out of the bulky vehicle and scanned for any signs of sentient beings associated to the place. Strika transformed and beheld the place with discontent. She spied the dim flickering from the screen of a pay kiosk and approached it with a sigh.

"I don't sink ve vill find anyzing better zan zis." She tapped through the series of options and windows on the machine, searching for the best room available. A bot knew they were at a truly low class establishment when not a single employee could be found on the premise. The rooms were instead checked out via the kiosk; a rather risky method as these machines never failed to accept payment but had a bad reputation of mis-communicating with the doors' autolocks. It was not unusual on a weekend night to find two bots interfacing on the door step of a room, most likely too broke or horny (probably both) to seek a respectable solution to the kiosk's malfunction.

"For Primus sake, let me pay for my own room!" Arcee stepped up to the kiosk. "You've done enough for me already."

"If ze door does not open, you pay for second attempt. Deal?"

Fortune smiled on Arcee and the door clicked open without posing a problem. Strika insisted on inspecting the room before leaving the femme to a potentially nauseating fate and Arcee, being new to this experience, didn't argue. The lights were on motion sensors and flickered on as the femmes entered. Strika wasn't surprised to see silvery stains decorating the room; she simply hoped the original color of the walls were still decipherable. She also hoped the neighboring rooms were empty, but that was asking too much as their silent inspection was interrupted by a rhythmic thudding upon the shared wall.

Strika sighed with hopelessness. "Perhaps I should just risk driving you to Iacon."

Arcee still carried enough of a buzz to be impartial about her surroundings. "That won't be necessary. This place will due." She turned to the Decepticon and grasped one of the massive yellow hands with both of hers. "How can I thank you for your generosity?"

Strika couldn't comprehend the Autobot's question. Where did generosity play into the enjoyment of one's company? She should have been the one offering up gratitude. It didn't matter that the night was cut short or that it was ending in a condemnable room, the brief connection they shared was enough to break the Decepticon from her routine and make the evening pleasurable. "Dere is no need for sanks. Just make sure you haffe ride home next time." She turned to leave but felt the small grip tighten on her hand.

"You don't understand." Arcee said suggestively. "I need to thank you…"

The adamant grip on Strika's hand sent welcome shivers coursing through her curious frame. She took a deep intake to combat them. She would not be the kind of bot that took advantage of a drunken femme. "You are not processing clearly." She gripped the small frame by the shoulders and guided her to the berth. "Is time you recharge."

Arcee's optics flared up. "You sound just like Ratchet!" She wriggled her shoulders out of the massive grip and pressed her chest into the General's thighs, hooking her fingers over the top edge of the pelvic plating staring her in the face. "I intend to prove you and everyone else wrong!"

The Decepticon froze as her chassis warmed to the touch. The feel of tiny probing fingers along her sensitive circuitry was a far cry from Lugnut's clumsy claws and she released a moan of exhilaration in response to it. She could have melted at how good the bot felt, but it wasn't right. Not here, not under those circumstances. She tried with all her being to pull away. If Arcee was sober, there would be no hesitation but Strika feared the Autobot may come around mid-'facing causing the situation to turn ugly. It took a couple cooling ventilations before she could formulate the words of protest. "I cannot…allow this."

Arcee was fed up. She was under the impression this 'con grasped the ripe reality presented to them. She now realized her misjudgment and decided it was time for teacher to educate the student. She summoned her weakest energy blast and released it through her fingers into the 'con's sensitive chassis. Strika hollered and her body went limp, limp enough for Arcee to shove it into a seated position onto the berth. "Lesson number one: relax." She knelt onto the floor and pushed the General's thighs farther apart. Her delicate white fingers traced the inner seams up to the edges of the leg plates and into the adjoining cables, pressing firmly on the universal hot spot that was known to induce an involuntarily retraction of the pelvic plating.

Strika was recovering from the stunning effect of the blast when the cool air against her exposed circuitry invoked another wave of immobilization. She slipped another moan, this time louder and longer, responding longingly to the teasing digits artfully exploring her anatomy. "I can't…oooohh, zhat is…you are—." She regretted bothering with vocals and conceded to lean back onto her elbows and sink into ecstasy.

Arcee was enthralled by the success of her first lesson and felt her chassis heat up with tingling desire. Her fingers gently parted the flexible wiring that hid her partner's sadly neglected sensory node. The aching treasure throbbed with a pink glow, captivating the blue optics locked upon it. Arcee leaned in and captured it in her mouth, caressing it expertly with her glossa and moaning wantonly at every twitch she triggered from the mighty thighs surrounding her. She slowly fed her fist into the hungry valve beneath her chin then buried her arm in elbow-deep. She extended her fingers out to reach as deep as she could. The lubricated lining of the General's walls were pulsing around the adventuring arm and Arcee began thrusting it in out while continuing to devour the engorged node.

Across the shared wall, the smaller of two 'cons perked his audio receptors at the wailing moans emerging from the neighboring room. He wriggled out from under the crushing copter enough to bring his head closer to the wall. "You hear that?" A shitty grin spread across Barricade's face.

Blackout was not pleased to be pulled from his stasis and simply growled in disinterest, rolling over to leave his easily amused partner to his own devices.

Barricade, now fully engrossed in the muffled song, sat up on the berth and leaned his audio receptor against the wall. "I know those vocals."

"Why am I not surprised," grumbled the copter. "Now shut the frag up and stop ruinin' my recharge."

Barricade ignored his hulking lay and initiated an energy signature scan. The results were quick and satisfying: Faction: Decepticon, Rank: General, Name: Strika. He leaned back into the wall and smiled as if her cries of overload were his all-time favorite tune. "Heh…'bout fraggin' time."

The next couple of megacycles flew by with enlightening revelation as Strika laid on the dirty berth, petting the candy-stripe body draped diagonally atop her chest. "I feel…gud. I haffen't felt zis gud since…my first victorious battle as General. How do you feel?"

Arcee sighed dreamily. "Like a young bot again."

"Zen you haffe felt zis before?" Strika inquired.

"Uh huh…back when I used to date Rodimus, well before the war." Arcee paused while the memory made its way to the surface of her processor. "He was hot…very aware of a femme's needs too."

"Vhy are you not wis him?" pondered the general.

"Because… his magic touch sadly wasn't enough to awaken a comatose femme in distress and, being the impatient bot he was, he moved on."

Strika scowled. "Zen he fully deserved to have his aft handed to him by my team."

"Right, the cosmic rust incident." Arcee spoke distantly. "I don't think anybot deserves that kind of punishment. Cosmic rust changes a bot, if they're lucky enough to recover from it. I hear rumors that Rodimus spends all his off-time in Iacon's low class pleasure houses now."

"Pleasure houses?" The term was somewhat alien to the Strika, and she felt a strong urge to change the topic. "Vhat is zis place you speak of?"

Arcee twisted her head to display her utter confusion at the question. "How is it a seasoned 'con doesn't know what a pleasure house is? Isn't Kaon bursting with them?"

"Dezepticons do not require designated establishments to seek…pleasure. It usually occurs in ze bars, alleys or dives like zis place." She shook her head in disgust. "Most 'cons haffe no shame vhen it comes to 'facin…Tell me vhat zese houses are like?"

The Autobot rested her head comfortably back upon the General. "Well, I don't exactly frequent those places, but from what little I know…they are repulsive. No class, no attempt to present their employees with dignity. And the worst part is how the femmes value a few meager credits over their own dignity."

"Are zere no mech companions?" Strika wondered.

"No self-respecting mech would lower himself to be a pleasurebot. And they're not companions, Strika…merely sentient valves for desperate spikes…too young and ignorant to recognize their misuse." Arcee had worked herself into a ruffle and sat up on her knees to continue the soap box speech. "How I would love to pull those girls aside and teach them a thing or two about the power of technique. Their customers wouldn't know what him them."

"Vhy don't you? Strika's voice sang of encouraging praise. If you can teach zose femmes to do to a mech vhat you haffe done to me, zen your knowledge is more valuable zan ze cryztal mines."

Arcee cycled a dozen scenarios in her processor before replying humbly. "You really think so?"

"Of course! Honey, I know a gift vhen I zee vun I haffe been told I possess vun myself." Arcee reacted excitedly to this. "Vhy don't you go into busines for yourself. Prooff to zose idiot Autobots zhat you are not damaged goods. Make a new name for yourself."

Arcee was reduced to confusion by her partner's words. "Wha—what do mean? How would teaching pleasurebots to 'face properly bolster my reputation to any respectable level?"

Strika sat up, excited by her sudden entrepreneurial advice. "You will be setting yourself apart as a self-sufficient businessbot in a business traditionally operated by old fashioned mechs. Plus, new businesses are popping up everyvhere and gaining success from ze crowds brought by ze arena."

Arcee stared curiously into the General, processor obviously working overtime as Strika continued with the motivational speech. "Get on ze bandvagon. Ze 'conz lack a pleasure house in Kaon. Buy up one of zese rattrap inns and turn it into Cybertron's first respectable pleasure house."

Arcee remained still and silent, only managing a slight optic flutter and eagerly awaited the General's next handout of empowerment.

"You have nozzing holding you back, you said it yourself. Ze Autobots von't effen let you work. Get yourself a loan and do it! Talk to Blaster and Vibes. Learn some tricks of ze cross-factional trade."

Arcee was dumbfounded with motivation. She internally cursed herself for not having thought of this on her own. She leaned into Strika's face, nearly in a trance, optics growing dangerously wide. "I don't need a loan. My savings earned impressive interest while I was in stasis. I have the means to build a pleasure…theme park!"

Strika laughed at the visual of such a place but quickly quieted when she beheld the sternly serious gaze upon her.

Arcee gripped the General's arms intently. "Let's do it together!"

That was all the convincing Strika needed.

One extremely busy month later, the unlikely pair found themselves standing proudly in front of a decadently restored inn, each raising a flute filled with sparkling pink liquid. The pioneering pleasure house shone with a brilliant red neon sign, boasting the name "Inamorato" written elegantly in the Cybertronian equivalent of a cursive font. The grand opening was announced for the following night, but like any well-to-do social event, there was a rehearsal.

Only three patrons were scheduled for the evening's events as there were only three escorts on the staff list so far. Arcee decided a couple weeks ago against training Iacon's trashy femmes when she learned of three prospects that were already trained accordingly, by both nature and experience. She was keen to their reputations and went out of her way to tackle the rigorous political gauntlet that was required to liberate them from the Elite Guard Stockade. Luckily, Sentinel Magnus easily warmed to the idea of sentencing the prisoners to a demeaning occupation that wouldn't cost him a single taxpayer credit. Arcee was content to let the Magnus wallow in his bigoted ignorance and welcomed Sunstorm, Ramjet and Chromia to their new life of house arrest and profitable pleasure.

Inamorato enforced the strict policy of 'leave your weapons and politics at the door.' Any bot who didn't comply with this would be quickly exiled by the hired muscle. It initially didn't sit well with Arcee to offer a life of luxury to an amoral double-agent and a pair of potentially back-stabbing seekers, but she didn't know of any other bots that can do the job so well or so eagerly. She also wasn't about to hypocritically stray from her own gospel policy. She settled to accept Strika's reassurance that the bouncers were there to keep the staff inline as well, and that any employee foolish enough to look a gift horse in the mouth would quickly find themself back in the stockades. (She also had never witnessed a seeker in heat before and was anxious to see how this natural phenomenon will affect business.)

It took very little effort to advertise the place. Word-of-mouth was a primus-send for their line of business, planting the seeds of curiosity at both the B&V and the arena. Two weeks into the house's construction and the patron list was booked solid for the first three months. The femmes were not in it as much for the money, but more the culturally enlightening experience of exotic escapism, and therefore were very meticulous on who they allowed in. Their rates were reasonable but just high enough to discourage the typical scoundrel from visiting.

The Inamorato became the hot gossip of both cities, gaining fame by rumor alone; a very accurate rumor that properly labeled it as the first business of its kind on the planet.

Arcee and Strika clanked their flutes and tipped the bubbling symbol of success down their throats. They tossed the delicate glasses over their shoulders with a laugh and entered proudly through the grand red doors of their promising new life.


	2. Lugnut Gets 'Conned

_A/N: Yeah, I suck at titles. How did I end up writing the wrongest raunch thus far?! The key to this being funny __**AT ALL **__(I make no promises of actual humor, only attempts thereto) is to remember that Sunstorm is the suckup and everything Ramjet says is a lie. And Lugnut is pure adorable. _

Lugnut Gets 'Conned by antepathy

*****

Lugnut knew he wasn't the smartest mech ever to roll off the assembly line. He knew that there was a lot of…stuff he didn't get. He was used to that. And he figured he more than made up for it. At least, no one had ever called him stupid to his face.

Except Megatron. But from Megatron, even the most vicious insult was a word of praise. And compared to the brilliance and charisma of the glory that was Megatron, Lugnut would accept that he was pretty stupid.

But even so, he had to admit that this time, his stupidity was getting frustrating. Because it involved the other light of his universe, the ravishingly beautiful Strika. He had never met another femme like her: confident and brash and powerful and processor-meltingly gorgeous. He told her so at every opportunity, even those opportunities that weren't so opportune, like when she was draining lubricant. Even that was beautiful. He shivered at the memory, the memory sharpened by the fist she'd lodged in his jaw for intruding into the maintenance facility.

So…how could she reject him? Maybe she hadn't. It was possible that this was something else he just wasn't understanding, wasn't getting. But it sure felt like a rejection.

Blitzwing had always told him that whenever things got too confusing, he should start at the beginning and replay the whole thing and see what he missed. Right.

This was the last night of the week. He'd been working hard all week as the bouncer, walking the halls of the upper rooms with his best Intimidating Glare coming out of all five of his optics. He'd loomed menacingly in the bar, inching closer whenever someone particularly troublesome—meaning Lockdown—came in. And he had a big fight tomorrow night in the arena. He thought he deserved a little…good luck sex. It seemed reasonable, right?

No. Strika had shot him down. Telling him he needed to conserve his strength, and concentrate on tomorrow's battle. She'd tried to distract him with the specs of the two fighters he'd be facing. A topic which normally engaged him…but nothing was more engaging than being in Strika's presence. He could smell her external joint lubricant, like the most intoxicating perfume in the universe, and hear the melodious baritone of her beautiful voice, over the sweet hum of her engine. He could concentrate on nothing but how much he wanted her.

And that made sense, to him. He'd spent the last week surrounded by sex. Interfacing in every form and variety had paraded itself under his five optics. It was…distracting. Strika was right that he needed to concentrate, but she didn't understand that interfacing with him would help him concentrate! Clear his mind from all of the horny visions he'd been wading through all week.

He'd fallen to his knees, throwing his huge arms around her bounteous waist, trying to nuzzle his face into her interface panel, to get to that valve he desperately wanted. Even just pleasuring her, he'd begged, would be enough. Just seeing her overload would satisfy him, tide him over.

She thrust him roughly away, using what he'd recognized as her General Voice. Which aroused him almost as much as it drew his immediate compliance. She would see him after the battle, but right now, even zo' he might be off duty, she had ze rezponzibilities.

He hung his head, but as she slammed the door to her office in his green face, his farthest set optics caught sight of her wrapping her arms around her pink and white business partner in a way that did not look at all responsible.

And so, here he was. On the steps outside Inamorato, the neon sign powered down, the streets dark for those few hours when even evil took a little power nap. All alone. And stupid. And sad.

He punched himself in the head, the metal on metal sound ringing through the empty street. "Stupid!" he berated himself. "Unworthy!" Another blow.

A light flipped on in one of the windows above him. A few kliks later, he heard the main door open behind him. He didn't move. Stupid. Serve the stupid unworthy Lugnut right if someone jumped him. And maybe Strika would feel sorry for him then. Lugnut all beat up.

He twitched at the touch of two hands on his shoulders. One hand draped itself around his neck as he felt a shape settle on the step next to him. "What's a handsome mech like you doing out here?" the voice said.

He turned his head—one of the employees, a saffron and red jet model. Sunstorm. He shrugged.

"Come on," Sunstorm said, running one hand, its delicate pointed talons perfectly suited to tracing seams in armor, "You can tell me."

"You can!" said another voice, Ramjet's, from the doorway. "He is entirely trustworthy."

There was something he was supposed to remember about the clones, he remembered that much, vaguely. He remembered Strika showing him a powerpoint presentation, with little stick figure animations to illustrate some point. But between how cute the little illustrations were, and how incredibly sexy he found her teacher-mode, he'd forgotten the point. He did know they were related to Starscream. And Starscream was all right, right?

"Strika doesn't want me anymore!" he bawled, his claws clutching helplessly between his knees. He hung his head.

"That bitch," Sunstorm hissed. "She doesn't deserve a mech like you."

Lugnut reared up, furious. "Strika is the most beautiful femme ever, and she's kind and generous and sweet and," his claw balled into a fist, "employs you."

"Right!" Ramjet stepped forward, quickly, gesturing for Lugnut to lower his fist. Sunstorm's yellow color looked a little sickly-greenish. "He was confused. That's all. Happens all the time. You know. Another femme. Who is a bitch."

Sunstorm cast his clone a grateful look. "Yes! That's it, exactly. You meant OUR Strika. The many-talented and radiant Strika. Our most generous and beneficent employer."

Lugnut hesitated, optics narrowed. He'd never heard of another femme named Strika. But still, Ramjet made sense—everyone got confused every once in a while. He knew he certainly did.

"Oh yes," Ramjet added. "I cannot think of a femme who is more beautiful, or an employer with more generosity. And grace."

"She is graceful," Lugnut said, wistfully, recalling watching Strika lumber across the dance floor—was it only last night?—to separate a non-paying customer from an employee. She was poetry and music in motion. He sighed.

Above his shoulder, the two jets exchanged a look.

"Hey," Sunstorm said, twining his arm around Lugnut's. "You don't have any place to go tonight, do you?"

"Have a recharge berth. Cross town." It seemed really far away and really lonely right now, though. "Wasn't planning on going there tonight."

"Then don't," Sunstorm purred. "You can stay here with us. Maybe we can help you feel a little better."

"No," Lugnut said, "I couldn't do that."

"Sure you could," Sunstorm said, rubbing his cheek down Lugnut's arm. "It's no trouble at all. After all, we're all friends here, aren't we?"

"Yes, of course," Ramjet said. "No trouble at all. And ALL we want to do is to help out a fellow employee—and Decepticon—in his time of need."

"You'd do the same for us, of course. Your generosity is without peer." Sunstorm stood, dragging Lugnut up by the claw. "Come on in with us."

*****

And that's how Lugnut found himself in one of the client rooms, two jets purring all over him, sprawled flat on his back on a velvet cushion. He had to admit it felt pretty good: Sunstorm had kept up a constant string of praise—how his colors matched so well with the burgundy cushion (Ramjet had agreed, vociferously); how adorable his optics were; how unique and novel an experience it was kissing a mech with a mouth made like his (Ramjet had gone even further and called it fantastic and erotic). All in all, he was feeling pretty good.

Sunstorm's fingers drifted to the purple panel of Lugnut's interface hatch. Lugnut groaned, all of his repressed desire surging to the surface of his awareness. "My, my," Sunstorm said, as the hatch sprang open at his touch. "So eager."

Lugnut squirmed. This wasn't right. Strika. He loved Strika. He should only interface with Strika. And Megatron, of course, if Megatron ever offered. No, he would offer, eventually. Once Lugnut had proved himself deserving.

"Strika," he moaned, throwing one claw to cover his interface equipment.

"Strika," Sunstorm leaned forward to whisper in his audio, "isn't here. This is about you."

"And we will never tell," Ramjet purred, stretching out along Lugnut's other side, his khaki fingers tracing the window panel on Lugnut's chest.

"No one's as good as Strika," Lugnut muttered, twitching as one of them—he couldn't tell who—released his valve cover.

"Of course not," Sunstorm murmured. "We'd never dream of being competition for Strika. But this is just…medicinal."

"Medicinal?" How was interfacing medicinal? But they wouldn't lie.

"Just to help you relax," Ramjet purred again. "Just to help you feel better. Just to help you know how attractive and desirable you are."

"We want you," Sunstorm whispered, as Ramjet shifted his position to between Lugnut's green thighs. "You'd do us an enormous honor if you'd let us show you how badly we want you."

"Uhhhhhhh, okay? But just…a little—OHHH!" He writhed as Ramjet's glossa circled the edge of his valve.

Sunstorm began licking at Lugnut's fingers, murmuring in between licks, "So powerful!" "Such a lovely shade of green!" With his free hand, Lugnut tentatively reached to touch the broad expanse of Sunstorm's gold wing. The jet shuddered, tilting his head up, arching into the touch in unfeigned pleasure. This felt…nice. Friendly, right? Employees looking out for each other. That was all.

Lugnut felt the Ramjet's dark-edged wing brush against his thigh, as he squirmed for a better position. Lugnut's entire body jerked, throwing Sunstorm to the floor, as Ramjet slid two fingers into his valve. His claws clutched at the velvet cushion, his optics flickering offline at the intensity.

"Sorry!" he gasped, as Sunstorm climbed back onto the cushion next to him. "Sorry!"

"My fault entirely," Sunstorm said, "I should have known that a powerful mech like you would be so strong. And so aroused."

"Don't look at me," Ramjet said, "I had nothing to do with it." He rotated his fingers in the mech's valve, grinning as Lugnut moaned, loudly. Ramjet clambered up Lugnut's body, pausing to tap Sunstorm on the shoulder.

"Ramjet wants you," Sunstorm said. "Say he can. I want to watch."

Lugnut blinked. "Why doesn't he ask me himself?"

"Oh," Sunstorm said, airily, "He can't talk during sex."

"Why not?"

"He likes it."

Lugnut blinked, confused. For…definitely not the first time this evening. "Ooookay," he said, hesitantly. Strika wouldn't mind. She wanted him for his spike mostly. And they said it was medicinal—maybe one of them had some medical training?

Ramjet muttered something under his breath as he slid his spike into Lugnut's valve. Sunstorm's eyes glowed. "You are so hot," Sunstorm breathed, watching Ramjet rock against Lugnut's body, his light-colored hands clawing into Lugnut's chest armor. "The powerful Kaon Krusher," Sunstorm leaned forward to kiss his throat. "So big and strong!"

Above him, Ramjet muttered something else Lugnut didn't hear, pushing harder against the valve. Sunstorm reached up, pulling Ramjet's muttering mouth into a kiss, his hands roaming fiercely, harder than Lugnut would have thought pleasurable, across the other clone's wings. Ramjet continued to make a river of noise deep in his throat.

The two of them kissing, Lugnut had to admit, was hot. The same way this entire week of witnessing various pervy acts was hot. All of his built-up arousal surged back over him, sweeping him into an overload that clutched so ferociously against Ramjet's spike that Ramjet winced. The overload twisted Lugnut up onto his elbows, sucking deep gasps of air to cool his overheated systems. Ramjet tore his mouth away from Sunstorm's as he overloaded, "YOU ARE SO FRAGGIN' BAD!!!" he shouted, a hot spill of transfluid against his valve distracting Lugnut from thinking too hard what that was all about.

Ramjet collapsed across Lugnut's chassis, his wings drooping, spent. Sunstorm squirmed his hand in between the two bodies, his skilled fingers manually-releasing the spike cover, struggling as the more-than-half pressurized spike caught against the cover. "Oh my," Sunstorm said, as he wrapped his saffron fingers around the steel-grey of the spike, sliding its lubricant down the length. "So big. Ramjet, have you ever seen a spike so big before?"

Ramjet shifted himself off to one side, withdrawing from Lugnut's valve with a leak of warm fluid. He looked down. "No. That has to be the biggest spike I've ever seen." Sunstorm winked up at him.

"My turn," Sunstorm said, kicking Ramjet away to straddle Lugnut's hips. "I have to have this magnificent spike in me."

"No!" Lugnut felt his desire turn to alarm. "That's Strika's spike!" He squirmed, trying to roll onto his belly, but the spike stabbed into the cushion, sending Sunstorm to the floor again.

"It's your spike," Sunstorm said, climbing back up for a second time, roaming his hands over Lugnut's broad back. "And it's hot and huge and I want you soooooo badly."

"Huge," Ramjet echoed. "It's enormous. We don't see a lot of spikes like yours."

"It's Strika's," Lugnut said, defiantly. He rolled over onto his side. "See?" He showed off, proudly, where he'd gotten 'Property of General Strika' engraved on the baseplate of his spike.

"That is," Ramjet said, leaning over to look, "The cutest thing I have ever seen."

"Oh," Sunstorm said, "Of course it's her property. But then again, aren't we all? We're all property of Inamorato, right?"

"Uhhhhh, I guess so?" Lugnut didn't like the idea that they were Strika's property, too. But Sunstorm had a point. "But…," he could see, dimly, that Sunstorm's point went somewhere he didn't like.

"Can I inspect it more closely?" Sunstorm asked. "Such fine craftsmanship—I really want to appreciate it in full."

"Strika," Ramjet blurted, "Is a lucky femme."

The double flattery worked on Lugnut—he flopped back onto his back. Sunstorm bent over him, optics keen on the spike. "Such a unique choice of font. What an incredibly touching sign of devotion." He touched it with his glossa, causing Lugnut to twitch.

"Don't," he breathed, weakly. "Strika's spike."

"Oh, I wouldn't dream of doing anything wrong," Sunstorm said, exchanging another of those mysterious glances with his fellow clone. "I just want to see what the engraving feels like."

"Oh, well, that's okay, I guess." Lugnut's optics flickered offline as Sunstorm licked at the engraving again. "Just…uh…aren't you done yet?" He squirmed, his spike releasing another glob of lubricant.

"Oh, this poor spike," Sunstorm said. "You know what it wants, Lugnut. Let me do it. Please." He licked his way up the spike, glossa tweaking each of the sensor nodes as he did. Lugnut shuddered, making some entirely incomprehensible sound.

"He's never like this," Ramjet smirked. "You're special."

Sunstorm frowned sourly at him. "You had your turn, Ramjet," he pouted, throwing his leg over Lugnut again. He lowered himself onto the spike.

Lugnut's optics flickered back online with alarm. "No! That's Strika's spike!" he roared, sweeping Sunstorm off him with one swipe of his hand. This time, Sunstorm flew across the room with a crash.

"VHAT IS THIS?!"

Lugnut froze, half sitting up, one claw curled protectively over his spike. "S—Strika!" he gasped, weakly.

She stormed across the room. "I leaff you for vun night, biffore ze big battles and zis is vhat you do?"

"Strika," he said, pathetically. "I'm sorry. We're just employees and we have to take care of each other and…." He quailed at the fury in her eyes. He slid to the floor, throwing his arms around her knees. "Please forgive me."

Strika ignored him. "And YOU two! Vhat you do taking adwantages of my mech like zis?!"

"Oh," Sunstorm oozed, brushing himself off as he got back to his feet, "We just adore you so much but we're too afraid to get close to you ourselves so we thought—"

"ZILENZ!" Strika rounded on Ramjet. "Zunztorm, you are yoosless. Ramjet."

Ramjet tipped his chin up confidently. "You saw it yourself. He was all over us. We had no choice!"

"Azz I zought." Strika frowned. She grabbed Lugnut's head, which had sunk lower at Ramjet's words. "Zese two are nozzing but trouble, Lugnut. I haff varned you about zem. Maybe zis time you listen, eh?"

"Yes, Strika," he said, meekly. "I'm sorry."

"Eess not your fvault, entirely," she said. "Zese two," she shook her head. "You better come wiz me, Lugnut,"

Lugnut's eyes lit up with hope, only to dim at Strika's next words.

"But I zink you haff had enough of the intervacing for tonight."

"I—I can make it up to you, Strika."

She patted his head, the anger melting from her face. He wasn't bad. Just an idiot. An idiot that these two were the best suited to take advantage of. She'd heard his last yell. And he was right. It was her spike. "Oh, don't vorry, little Lugnut, You vill."


	3. Hired

_a/n One of the first customers... of course it had to be Lockdown how could he resist trying to seduce Prowl ^_^ Hope you like it... _

**Hired** by

Prowl had been impressed by the recent gladiatorial match. It was his first visit to Kaon since the Decepticons had decided to settle there. For the most part he had enjoyed his visit. He was heading to his transport to take him back to Iacon City to meet with Optimus when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks.

"What's a fine Autobot like you doing in a place like Kaon?" Prowl turned greeted by Lockdown's knowing leer. "Bit below your standards aint it kid?"

Prowl folded his arms. "And just what would you know about standards?" He raised an orbital brow questioningly as Lockdown approached him circling him once.

"Oh I think I could surprise you…" He grinned leaning in closer to Prowl's audio. Prowl moved himself away from the reach of Lockdown's hook.

"Unless you've suddenly started doing charity work… I very much doubt anything you do would surprise me."

"That so?" Lockdown enjoyed a challenge. "How 'bout we discuss that over some high grade?"

Prowl merely looked at the bounty hunter in disbelief. "You must be joking…?" He scoffed. "I don't have time for your idle games Lockdown, now if you don't mind I have somewhere to be."

Prowl turned to leave a firm grasp on his arm halting him in his tracks.

"As a matter of fact I do mind kid… why you gotta be like that? I was only offerin' to buy you a drink… turnin' me down is just rude now aint it?"

Prowl removed Lockdown's fingers from his arm frowning. "What do you really want Lockdown?" His tone clipped, short.

The large green and black mech backed off his arms raised. "Nothin' darlin'… nothin' at all." He turned and headed into a dank looking bar, the door swinging shut behind him. Prowl couldn't help but feel guilty, heading back to his transport he paused after a few steps. Cursing himself internally he turned back and hesitated briefly before entering the bar.

****

Lockdown smirked as he watched the lithe black and gold mech scan his narrow optics around the dark, dusty bar. He was already drawing the attention of the less than reputable characters slouched on and around the bar. Having spotted Lockdown in the corner, Prowl headed straight over confidently, ignoring the puerile comments that floated his way. Lockdown quickly wiped the smirk off his face.

"What do you want kid?" He didn't even bother looking at Prowl, feigning disinterest. "Here to take some more digs at me…?"

"I… I apologise…" Lockdown almost choked on his energon cube.

"You what?"

"I'm sorry… for being rude to you… it was uncalled for…" Prowl looked distinctly uncomfortable, his optics glancing around the room, his hands clasped behind his back.

Lockdown chuckled, half surprised. "Grab a seat darlin'…" He patted the chair next to him. "You're attracting attention…"

Prowl sighed reluctantly as he sat down beside the larger mech. Lockdown clicked his fingers and gestured to the bar keep. Another cube of high grade was placed in front of Prowl, who stared at it.

"It's not gonna' bite ya kid…" Lockdown grinned.

Prowl took a sip. It wasn't bad. "Thank you…" He added graciously. Lockdown gulped the rest of his cube down.

"So how you been keepin' that pretty processor of yours?" Prowl cast him a sidelong look as his hook tapped lightly on the side of his helm. He took a larger mouthful of high grade.

"That's why you asked me here, to make small talk?"

"What's wrong with small talk?"

"You always have an ulterior motive."

Lockdown managed to look offended. "I'm hurt…"

"Of course you are." The corner of Prowl's mouth upturned slightly as he drank his cube. The effects of which were helping his circuits feel tingly warm, it was strong stuff. Much stronger than he was used to, yet he finished it anyway.

A slight scuffle was breaking out at the bar. Prowl looked up sharply. Lockdown leaned in. "Come on… I know a quieter place… much classier than this dive."

"You know of a classy place… really?" Prowl looked amused. Lockdown chuckled.

"Thought I couldn't surprise you huh?" He gestured to Prowl who followed him through the bar. An all out fight broke out around them, Prowl found himself suddenly crushed against the bar painfully as two much larger mechs towered over him, laying punches into their helms and torsos. Try as he might he couldn't wriggle out from beneath their struggling weight. One of the mechs suddenly grunted in pain and was sent sliding across the bar, high grade scattering in his wake. The other mech turned to face the assailant, finding a hook digging into the bottom of his chin and a large weapon pointing into his chest.

Lockdown glared at the inebriated mech who gulped. "You hurt kid?"

Prowl slid out from beneath the trembling mech and shook his head. "I'm fine…"

Lockdown shoved the large mech back and took Prowl's arm firmly. "Let's go."

Prowl was more than a little shocked at Lockdown's uncharacteristic show of concern. "Really I'm fine." He shook his arm from the bounty hunter's grasp.

Lockdown looked him up and down for himself and grunted his agreement; the concern disappeared replaced once again by his notable leer. "Shouldn't a' gone in there darlin'."

"I was going in after you!" Prowl retorted hotly.

Lockdown snickered. "Think too much of yourself kid." He glanced over his shoulder as he walked away from the baffled ninja bot. "You comin'? I think you owe me some high grade for saving your aft back there." He winked slyly.

Prowl groaned and rolled his optics before following Lockdown to a more remote part of Kaon, he'd had just a little too much strong high grade to listen to his better judgement.

****

Prowl glanced up at the large neon sign flickering faintly over his head. 'Inamorato'

"Lockdown what kind of place is this?" He paused at the door staring up at the sign. Lockdown rolled his optics and grabbed Prowl's wrist. "A classy one… now get in here…"

Prowl was jerked forward, a pair of blue optics he recognised as Brawn's, narrowed at him as he was pulled inside the establishment. Lockdown hadn't been joking. The place he stepped into was a far cry from the bar they'd just left. The soft lighting bathed them in a warm glow. The bar was quaint, hidden away beneath an overhanging balcony, with large ornate curving staircases leading down from the many doors lined along the walls. Each one leading to another room.

Prowl's gaze was drawn to the shimmering pale blue veils that blew softly in the breeze of their entrance. They hid yet smaller more private areas lined with small seats and velvet pillows. Across from the bar was a quiet corner, with neatly laid out spark reading charts draping across the circular table. Prowl's mouth parted in surprise as the bar opened up to an opening leading deeper into the building. He spied yet more doors leading off the main walkway.

A few mechs were sat or lounging in the fully furnished booths, sipping high grade. Their conversations drowned out by the soft music that graced his audios. He spotted Arcee walking smoothly over to them.

"Lockdown… back so soon?" She smiled her optics widened as her gaze fell onto Prowl. "And with a guest I see…"

She walked over to the slightly stunned ninjabot who was surprised to see her looking, well so ravishing. Her elegant pink frame was adorned with subtle decoration. She embraced him lightly.

"How's Ratchet doing?"

And she smelled wonderful. Prowl composed himself. "He's fine, he's been asking after you."

"Really?" Arcee smiled warmly.

"Since he knew I was coming to Kaon…"

Arcee purred a response looking slightly pleased. "I hope you enjoy your first visit Prowl." She turned back to Lockdown. "A word please."

The bounty hunter smirked and glanced over his shoulder to Prowl. "Find us a seat will you?"

Prowl blinked shaking his head slightly before seating himself at a small table in a quiet corner. His cortex felt a little foggy either from the high grade or the intoxicating atmosphere of this new bar. He watched Lockdown talk animatedly with Arcee. Who frowned and nodded her head slightly as she poured out two cubes of energon. He narrowed his optics when he spied a large amount of credit pass between them.

A voice spoke beside him. "Wouldn't have expected to ever see you here…" Sentinel sneered down at him. Before planting himself in a cushioned seat beside Prowl. His words slightly slurred Sentinel continued.

"Sooo… what are you looking for this evening?" He leaned in close to Prowl.

"Looking for…?" He frowned as Sentinel looked over the top of his energon cube at him. "Are you drunk?"

Sentinel smirked and nodded his head. "Working on it…" He held out his cube to Prowl who took hold of it before the pink fluid sloshed over the table. "Care to join me…?"

Prowl took a mouthful of high grade, the cool fluid slipping down his throat. It was even stronger than the last lot he'd drank. "I'm already here with…"

"What him…?!" Sentinel gestured widely towards where Lockdown was hunched over the bar still locked in conversation with Arcee. "Oh come on Prowl… you can do better than that…" He grinned as Prowl glanced up towards the balcony when faint mewls of excitement drifted down to their audios.

"You want to try it out…?"

Prowl snapped his head back to frown at Sentinel who had drawn himself closer than was comfortable. "Try what out?" He leaned back from the inebriated elite guard, who lazily crept across the large cushioned seat towards him. Prowl gulped another mouthful of the high grade down to calm his building nervous tension. That, he realised quickly, was a mistake.

He leaned back against the wall, his CPU clouding over with intoxication. Sentinel ran his finger absently across Prowl's chest. "It will help you relax…"

Prowl tried to shift away from him uncomfortably. "I don'… need to relax…" He pushed Sentinel back slightly, not enough for the larger blue mech to take as a definite no, besides he wasn't doing this for himself. He glanced up towards the balcony, his blue optics meeting the stern glare from Chromia who was all but seething with envy as he draped himself over Prowl's frame. She clenched her fists before stalking out of sight.

Sentinel chuckled pleased with himself. Glancing at the slightly intoxicated ninjabot he grinned. Might as well finish what he started. He took Prowl's face with one hand and leaned closer.

A sharp hook curled around Sentinel's large shoulder, making sure to get into the joint. Sentinel hissed as the point scraped along wires.

"If your lips so much as touch him I can promise you, you'll no longer be wearin' em."

Sentinel growled and stood to face Lockdown, who met his irritated glare with a deadly one. "What you think you have the rights to come in here like you own the fraggin' place…? He's not your property…"

Lockdown growled softly. "He is here with me…owes me some high grade… so I'd appreciate you not trying to get your slimy 'bot paws all over him just to piss off a femme."

Sentinel launched a punch at Lockdown's head, missing entirely in his drunken state. Prowl suddenly shaken from his daze, stood to avoid having Sentinel thrown on him. In trying to avoid getting hit, Prowl ended up in the path of an angry Sentinel whose wide punch struck Prowl in the side of the head sending him sprawling to the smooth floor. Sentinel was grabbed harshly by Brawn and dragged towards the exit, hollering his revenge at Lockdown who sneered menacingly at the drunken elite guard.

Without wasting time, the bounty hunter gathered up the dazed ninjabot and took him into a back room with a small nod from Arcee who stood shaking her head at the mess. Jazz caught her optic in the corner chuckling into his drink having watched the entire scene unfold, more than a little intrigued as to what the disreputable bounty hunter wanted with Prowl.

****

Prowl found himself seated on a soft satin surface. He blinked as energon trickled down the side of his head. Lockdown carefully wiped away the energon, leaning in closer to check his wound. Prowl irritated, batted him away. "I'm fine…"

"You're welcome…" Lockdown grumbled.

"For what..?" Prowl frowned, his foggy CPU struggling to take in the night's events.

"Takin' care of your pain in the aft spark." Lockdown snapped, still irritated by the scuffle. Prowl's expression softened slightly as he rubbed his head gingerly. "Oh… that…"

"Could thank me…" Lockdown planted himself beside the ninja bot his hand trailing across his legs. Prowl tensed immediately and tried to stand, a strong hand immediately pushing him back down onto the pillowed surface.

"Oho… where'd you think you're goin' kid… you still owe me remember… twice now by my reckoning…" He grinned as he loomed over Prowl.

"You are delusional if you think I am going to let that persuade me into doing anything with you!" He pushed back hard at Lockdown's chest. Lockdown laughed lightly.

"Oh I don't think that will darlin' I think this will…"

"Nnhhgmmm…" Prowl's protest was cut off as Lockdown's mouth locked around his, his smooth glossa invading, pushing deep inside, twisting around Prowl's glossa as the ninjabot struggled feebly. Lockdown didn't let up, his expert glossa caressing the inside of Prowl's mouth, while his hands ran up the wings leading from his shoulders. He felt Prowl mewl softly into his mouth and grinned into the kiss as the ninjabot relaxed beneath him, slender fingers gripping at his armour.

Lockdown growled excitedly as he broke the kiss his glossa leaving a wet trail down Prowl's chest and torso, tracing the outline of the red Autobot symbol before sinking lower.

Prowl gasped as Lockdown's hands brushed over his interface cover, the larger mech now kneeling on the floor between his legs. The bounty hunter took in the sight hungrily as he removed the cover revealing Prowl's slightly aroused spike. Sitting up on his haunches he leaned over Prowl's slight frame, letting his fingers drift towards the ninjabot's exposed valve. Prowl moaned and arched as a thick finger pressed into him.

Lockdown felt heat rising all over his body at the pleasurable sounds Prowl was making in response to the firm thrusts of his hand. He dipped his head sucking at his neck as he slipped another finger into the tight valve. Prowl's rich voice filled his audio sending shudders of excitement down his sensor net. His sharp hook traced a line across the small chevron on Prowl's forehead as he stared at the writhing ninjabot with intense want.

"Unngghh… Primus darlin' you get me hot…" He groaned as Prowl arched further into the ministrations of his skilled fingers, his air intakes coming in short sharp gasps.

"Sooo gettin' my monies worth tonight…" He murmured into Prowl's throat as he kissed it seductively. Lockdown felt Prowl go rigid beneath him.

"What…?" His voice caught in his throat. Lockdown lifted his head up meeting Prowl's confused questioning gaze.

"What?"

"What did you… Nngghh… just say…?"

"Nothin'… just mumblin' kid…" Lockdown frowned as Prowl pushed away from him, scrabbling to a sitting position, his legs closing as Lockdown retrieved his now wet fingers. Prowl's frame was trembling slightly with arousal as he stared at Lockdown.

"What's your monies worth...?" He demanded.

Lockdown winced slightly. "Come on darlin'… it was nothin'…" He reached his hook forward trying to pull Prowl back towards him, Prowl drew further back his face unreadable.

"You paid for this?!... You planned this…?"

"It's not like that kid… it's not what you think…?" Lockdown found himself unaccustomed to feeling flustered. This wasn't going the way he wanted.

Prowl growled slightly, now standing he replaced his interface cover wincing slightly as it pressed against his aroused spike.

"Really...? Well why don't you enlighten me Lockdown… just how often do you frequent this place…?"

Lockdown was getting irritable and frustrated. A dangerous mix. "Don' be like this kid… you're over reacting…"

Prowl clenched his jaw. "No… I'm leaving… to think I nearly… with you…" He let out a noise of disgust as he headed haughtily to the door. He didn't get far before finding himself shoved against the nearest wall with a grunt.

"Get your hands off me…" He growled angrily, struggling against the bounty hunter's much heavier frame. Lockdown shook his head in frustration and spun Prowl round forcing him painfully against the wall, his elbow resting in his neck.

"Let me go!" Prowl demanded, wincing as he felt cold metal tighten around his wrists. The sound of a long chain rattling against metal worried him. His arms were yanked up behind him painfully, his feet scraping on the floor as he thrashed in the shackles. His back bent forward painfully.

Lockdown stood in front of him, his hook lifting his chin so he could plant a firm kiss onto Prowl's now unwilling mouth.

"You can't do this!"

Lockdown laughed bitterly, his face filled with disappointment. "I am doin' this darlin'… you gotta be careful who you turn your nose up at… next mech might not be so forgivin'."

Lockdown headed for the door. Prowl struggled against the undignified position he was chained in. "You can't just leave me here… like this…!"

"Lockdown glanced back, no trace of mirth on his face. "I dunno kid kinda suits ya… might bring that pride of yours down a few notches."

Prowl stared at the bounty hunter. Had he really hurt his feelings that much?

"See you around kid."

"Lockdown!!" Prowl yelled angrily after him. Before shaking his head in frustration. Sighing he tensed his arms, gripping onto the chain hanging from the ceiling and slowly lifted his legs until they rested against the metal links. Arching his arms he bent his body until he could slide his legs through the small gap. Dropping to the floor on his feet, his arms now shackled in front of him he jumped as Arcee broke his concentration.

"Impressive, very flexible… I could use someone like you…"

Prowl looked almost horrified at the suggestion as Arcee glided over to him and unlocked the shackles around his wrists.

"Looks like you're in a bit of bind sweet."

"It's my own fault." Prowl replied sheepishly now completely sober.

Arcee smiled sympathetically. "I don't mean with this. I mean with the problem of the bill."

"What bill?"

"Lockdown's…"

"Why don't you speak to him…?"

"He fled the scene… thing is you were a willing party to using my abode… so I am afraid you're going to have to pay up his debt. There's no knowing when he'll be back."

"You can't be serious?"

Arcee smiled her optics looking Prowl up and down, he could fetch her a lot of income, if he was willing. "Sure am… you'd make a lot of money here… there'd be a lot of mechs willing to pay high prices to get their mitts on a ninjabot…"

Prowl gawped at Arcee in disbelief. "I am not a pleasure bot!" He exclaimed hotly, not quite believing that Arcee had even asked him that question. It wasn't his fault he got other mechs' attentions, he certainly didn't ask for it and was most definitely not going to be paid to put up with it.

Arcee folded her arms firmly; the response was to be expected from the uptight Autobot. "Well now… can you tend bar…?"

"I… umm… yes actually…" Prowl answered quietly, a seemingly permanent frown etched on his features.

"Good consider yourself hired…" Prowl opened his mouth to protest, sensing it wouldn't do any good he sighed and followed Arcee down to the modest bar. She showed him where everything was and handed him a small white apron.

"To keep your paintwork clean… energon does stain…" She smiled. Prowl took it defeated. Arcee glanced round and noticed some of the looks that the newly hired ninjabot was getting. She smiled; maybe he could be persuaded after all he wasn't always just an Autobot.

"Hey Prowl would you consider a business proposition?"

"That depends…"

Arcee leaned across the bar putting on her more seductive tone. She'd only get one chance to ask him this and he'd either agree or she'd not see him for dust. "Ok… how about… you tend bar for the most part AND you do requests…completely optional of course." She added hastily.

"Requests?" Prowl didn't like this line of questioning. Still sounded too much like being a pleasure bot for his liking. He would not lower himself to that.

"You know… specific clients who specifically request you and are … willing to pay the price… you'll get a cut of course and it will help pay off Lockdown's debt faster." Arcee bit her lip hoping Prowl would take the bait.

The ninjabot simply stared at her in shock at what she was asking him to do. Could he really do that, is that all she thought he was worth? Then again just how much mess had Lockdown dropped him in?

"Just how large is his debt?" Prowl asked crisply. Arcee drew out some paperwork from her office and laid it on the bar. Prowl's optics widened in shock.

Arcee smirked at his silent response. His air intakes having actually stalled. "So we have a deal…?"

Prowl's shoulders slumped, considering the debt and the large bouncer eyeing him suspiciously from the doorway, Prowl didn't feel like he had a choice, agree or get the slag beaten out of him every cycle until paid the debt. He glanced at Arcee who was smiling warmly at him, her optics deadly serious. He had a feeling she wasn't going to take no for an answer. "How large a cut are you offering?"

"70:30"

"No 50:50 seeing as it will be me doing all the work." Prowl was going to get something out of this. He was far from inexperienced, but he wasn't going to be making this a regular thing and he wasn't going to interface with just any old mech that asked for him, if he had to do this, he was going to make it worth his while and still keep his principles.

Arcee shook her head firmly; she was not going to be swindled by a young ninjabot. "Ah but sweet I am covering all your board and your wages and your expenses." Arcee smiled warmly at him her optics glinting knowingly.

"60:40 then…"

"You got yourself a deal Prowl. I'll draw your up your contract shortly. You can come and go as you please. Doors open when the gladiatorial arena has its first match and we stay open until dawn. Clients are welcome to stop the night, I expect you to be here for all your shifts, I'm sure I won't have to send the bouncers looking for you and I also occasionally will appreciate your help with keeping the peace as we do get the odd rowdy dissatisfied client. You clear on the rules?"

"Crystal…"

"Good I shall see you tomorrow then, pleasure doing business with you."

"I have a condition…" Prowl responded sternly.

Arcee turned and glanced at him an orbital brow raised. The youngling had gall she'd give him that. "Name it."

"I reserve the right to refuse any requests. They should be my choice. This isn't after all my debt, I have no qualms with simply tending bar to repay it."

Arcee pursed her lips and gave a sharp nod. Prowl was a stubborn mech to contend with. Once she had him on board then she could work on having him bend those precious principles of his, maybe dent that pride he carried around with him on the way too. Prowl would have to learn to be a team player, one way or the other.

They shook hands and Prowl sighed as he shook his head. He left wondering how he was ever going to explain this to Optimus and the rest of them on Iacon.

Chromia watched him leave, draped over the balcony with a smug knowing smirk on her face, having listened in. "Oh this is going to be sooo much fun." She purred.

****


	4. The Shockwave Incident

A/N: I am pretending that Cybertronians have their own form of Tantra and it's called Tantra. Sorry, I wasn't creative enough to dream up a robotic-sounding name for it. =P

Time conversion:

cycle = minute  
mega-cycle = hour

Also, if you're curious what Chromia looks like, you can find her on DevArt under the name TheInamorato.

* * *

**The Shockwave Incident**_ by ToyzInTheAttic_

Inamorato would open its doors to the public in two mega cycles. It was hump day of the Cybertronian work week, which normally brought in a decently-sized crowd. Brawn was bouncing this evening and could always be depended on to help clean and prepare the place before opening. He mopped the floor in his typically casual manner while Sunstorm and Ramjet stood at opposite ends of the balcony, meticulously polishing the elegant gold railing. Prowl restocked the bar, quietly humming to himself, and blatantly ignoring the tawdry display twisting and dangling around one of the dance floor's poles.

Chromia was more than pleased with herself as she hung upside down, supported merely by the grip of a single leg. She watched as a gravity-defying Brawn pushed his mop across the dance floor, shaking his head and trying to hide his smirk.

"Please, don't trouble yourself " sneered Brawn. "We'll do all the prepping tonight, you just keep on dancing."

"This is prepping" she retorted firmly. "I'm practicing my routine." The femme curled up and reached for the pole but her leg slipped before her hand could grab hold and she went crashing down, landing clumsily on her neck and shoulders.

Brawn just shook his head and pushed his mop onward while Prowl lightly chuckled. The bartender's laughs were not unheard by the femme and she instantly snapped a glare at him. Prowl's smile dropped as he quickly pretended to be fully occupied with wiping the bar down. His efforts were futile as Chromia was already on a direct course to him, huffing less and less with every step as her playful side arose.

"Laugh it up, barkeep" snapped Chromia. Prowl ignored her as she approached, so she heft herself onto the bar and plant a foot down on his signature towel. Prowl still refused to acknowledge her and attempted to pull his towel from under her foot. She wasn't going to let him off that easy and dropped down, planting her aft on the towel and flinging a leg onto his shoulder.

"Chromia…" protested Prowl, "that is quite enough." He shoved her foot down, forcing her legs closed. He was not the least bit amused. He turned around to attend to the shelf behind him but was pulled back when she yanked his apron strings.

"I'll bet you could teach me a move or two" she gestured to the dance floor. "What with your past—"

"Chromia!" interrupted Prowl angrily. "Why must you—" He cut off when a large golden hand appeared above their heads and snatched Chromia by the neck.

"Leaff him alone!" ordered Strika and she tossed the guilty (only guilty because she was caught) femme over the railing and onto the stairway. The madam loomed over Chromia engulfing the escort with her shadow then pointed a hefty finger toward the private rooms. "Go clean Clazzic Room. I juzt book you client for tonight."

Chromia stood up, rubbing her aft and cursing that now two spots on her chassis ached. "The Classic Room?" She pouted like a juvenile as she headed up the steps. "Who the spark booked that boring ol' room?"

Strika followed the femme up the steps, slowing as she passed Ramjet to inspect his cleaning project. "Shockvaffe did. He zpecifically requezted you and ze Clazzic Room."

Chromia stopped at the Classic Room's door, smiling nostalgically as she watched Strika pass by and head toward the office. "Shockwave, huh?" Chromia mused. "Makes sense…anyone else request me?" she inquired pompously.

Strika opened the office door and glanced back over her armored shoulder at the femme. "No! " She barked apathetically. "Shockvaffe book you entire night. Now go get ready…he be here at open." She disappeared into the office with a slam of the door.

Chromia lingered with a calculating smirk that quickly spread to a dopey gape. "Awww, Longarm misses his Chromia." She leaned forward into the railing and beckoned to the bouncer. "You hear that Brawn? It's our old buddy, Longarm Prime."

Brawn maintained his indifference as he kept mopping. "Guess once wasn't enough for him."

Prowl shook his head and flashed a 'don't encourage her' glance to Brawn.

"I wonder why he booked me the entire night?" Chromia pondered. "He'll no doubt blow his load in the first ten cycles, just like he did in our EG days."

"What's wrong with that?" reasoned Brawn. "If it happens again and he passes out, you'll have the rest of the night to satisfy your urge to defile that pole."

"Oh! Fine point." she replied.

"Remind me to slip some uppers in his drink." muttered Prowl with a sly glance to Brawn.

"You guys wanna hear a story of the interfacing wonder that is Shockwave, er, was Longarm Prime?" she questioned sarcastically.

"Of course I would." added Ramjet, blatantly incencere.

Chromia sneered at him. "It's actually a funny and somewhat tragic story, well worth telling."

Sunstorm slid up to her opposite side, leaning in with pandering. "I would love to hear a story of your past deviation with Megatron's esteemed second-in-command.

Chromia's optics brightened at the seeker's interest. She didn't care that his sincerity was a facade or that he was the only one with any apparent desire to hear her story. The deliciously unprofessional encounter she shared with Longarm Prime during her time as an Elite Guard diplomat was much deserving of a properly juicy retelling, despite its disappointing outcome.

"He wasn't SIC then, that was Starscream." cringed the femme. She leaned into the railing, propping her chin in her palm, face spreading again with a nostalgic grin. "Let's see now… It was after the war, but before Megatron's reemergence on Earth. We had just returned from an interplanetary assembly held on Alpha Nine. Two orbital cycles chalked full of bullshit political foreplay which left us mindlessly exhausted. All we wanted was to break the charade and retreat to our private quarters…but there was the paperwork. Ultra Magnus insisted we complete the paperwork immediately upon return, so there we were…slumped at our work stations in the Intelligence office…processors fried and work ethic jaded.

_~begin flashback~_

Chromia vented a long, frustrated sigh as she tapped away at the keyboard. "Sir…this sucks. I need a break." She bitterly pushed away from her desk and plodded over to her boss, leaning her exhausted chassis into his desk.

Longarm Prime remained focused on his monitor, unaffected by her proximity and diligently tapping away at the keypad. "The sooner we finish, the sooner we can leave" he said flatly.

She dropped her shoulders with disappointment. "C'mon Longarm, we can do this in the morning. Magnus won't know the difference. I know you're just as burnt as I am."

Longarm was new to his prime position at the time, having just been promoted after climbing impressively quickly up the Elite Guard ladder. He joined the academy after Chromia had already graduated, but rapidly surpassed her in rank, working as her equal in Autobot Intelligence for only short period of time. He was very thorough, very dedicated and very by-the-book, unlike Chromia who tended to slide indifferently over the drudging details…such as paperwork.

Longarm highly respected the femme for her elegant negotiating skills and admired her ability to win over their foreign constituents with only a few words and an endearing grin. He was always glad to have her as back-up during meetings with intergalactic officials. It gave him time to break off from the rituals and report the latest intel back to Megatron. She never questioned his random disappearances, but he could tell she was curious.

This particular night had her in a prodding mood. She was very keen to the front this seemingly flawless bot put up on a daily basis, and decided to take advantage of his exhausted state. She shifted her aft until it found a seat upon his desk then propped her foot on his armrest. "What's your story?" she inquired in a sultry tone.

Her question posed more of a threat than her sexy posturing and caused a halt to his stream of data-entry. He tensed at her possible implications and strained to suppress a rise of internal temperature. It was far too soon for his cover to be blown. This femme was not stupid and would see right through a petty lie, especially considering their close proximity. He knew her well and instantly recognized her actions as seduction; a device used without fail by one very aware of her aesthetics and the effect they had at extracting information. He refused to fall into her trap. His ventilations were now unquestionably raised and he knew she could sense it. He would not be played for a fool, so he concluded that pretending to be played for a fool would be his saving grace.

"What do you mean?" asked Longarm nervously, barely meeting her optics. He reached into his 'I'm an innocent geek' pocket to deliver the next line. "I have no story besides the Elite Guard. This job is my life…you know that."

She tilted her head with skepticism. "I don't believe that. I think you're hiding something…like how you spend your spare time…how you entertain yourself."

Longarm relaxed at the shift of her interrogation, pleased with the diversion she just offered him. "I...occasionally visit…recreational facilities…as a means of relieving tension." He didn't even need to lie.

Her optics brightened with intrigue. "Recreational facilities!?" she chuckled. "You mean pleasure houses don't you?"

The prime coasted along with the act, filling his vocals with a guilty twinge. "Please! You mustn't mention this to anyone! It would destroy my career."

She regarded him with a silly expression. "Your spare time is yours to do whatever you like. Magnus can't control that. You do know what Sentinel and Rodimus do off the clock, right?" She slid her foot of the armrest and into his lap.

"I have heard the rumors" he replied lightly, warming to her touch.

"Then you know Magnus has too and obviously doesn't care" she reasoned. "However…" she wedged her foot in between the armrest and his hip then rolled the chair and its curious occupant until they were directly in front of her."…he would probably highly disapprove of the fraternizing of his officers, especially considering our differences of rank." She slid her body down and straddled his lap, wrapping her arms over his shoulders "And nothing relieves a little tension like blatantly breaking policy." She pressed into him with a deep kiss, her body squirming against his broad chest.

He didn't fight it. He was hiding a world of deceit from the entire Elite Guard. A little interfacing with a lesser-ranking official was small time business in his line of work. This was the perfect cover for her suspicions. He could easily hide behind a sexual attraction to her, especially since the task required very little acting. His hands eagerly found her hips and he squeezed them as he pulled her into him. He moaned as her glossa explored the hollow cavity of his mouth, starting with his dentals then working its way back.

She pulled away from this kiss and stared at him perplexed. "Where the spark is your glossa?"

The question caught him off-guard. He'd forgotten that small piece left out of his Autobot disguise, but he couldn't blame his designer for overlooking the need of such a detail. He quickly fabricated an excuse, caring more in the moment for resuming his lustful devouring of the femme and not of his answer's credibility. "Academy accident. I'll tell you the story another time. It's not my most proud incident." He pulled her back into the kiss, nipping longingly for her glossa and marveling at the feel of the unfamiliar body part.

They twisted and writhed in each other's arms, Chromia grinding her hips into his pelvic plating as his hands explored every curve of her back. She broke the kiss and trailed her lips down his face, searching for the ideal spot on his neck to sink her teeth into. She angled her head in a variety of positions, trying her hardest to access the delicate wiring, but growing frustrated when each approach was hindered by his peculiar mouth piece.

"You are so…thick for an intel bot" she teased. She gave up on his neck and arched up into a kiss again.

Suddenly, the static of his computer's comm screen interrupted their exchange of purrs and moans. Longarm twisted to behold the screen, still locked in a kiss with her. His optics widened at the incoming call and he reactively pushed the femme down to the floor underneath his desk.

Cliffjumper's visage popped onto the screen. "Cliffjumper"…said Longarm, wide-eyed. "What…what do you want?"

Cliffjumper instantly pondered his boss's unprofessional demeanor. "Uhhhh…supposed to tell you to not worry about the paper work, sir. Magnus said you could finish it in the morning."

Chromia, from her strategic position under the desk, saw an opportunity ripe for fun. She slithered her hands up his thighs and triggered the retraction of his interface panel.

Longarm did the robot equivalent of blushing, much to Cliffjumper's curiosity. "Very well, Cliffjumper," stuttered Longarm, "th-thank you for the informa-mation."

Cliffjumper could be an idiot with a lot of matters, but spotting a bot who's been caught mid-'facin came naturally to him. His face twitched with a smirk and his processor raced for a reason to keep his boss on the comm. "Sir, wait…before you go…uh."

Chromia was now thoroughly working the prime's very aroused spike, rhythmically squeezing its base and sliding her mouth up and down the shaft.

Longarm's hand hovered over the 'end call' button as he helplessly released a staggering moan. "What…do…you need?" he strained with embarrassment.

Chromia swirled her glossa around his lubricated tip and glanced teasingly up at him, smile spreading at his obvious discomfort.

Cliffjumper had to end the call before he burst out laughing. "Oh, nothing, sir. Enjoy your evening." His image disappeared from the screen.

Longarm released a sighing moan and dropped his shoulders in relief. He looked disapprovingly down at the femme. "You devious little brat." She giggled in response then climbed back upon his lap, optics pinned mischievously on his. He couldn't help but smile in return, still shuddering from the lingering feeling of her performance on his throbbing spike.

"Do you still have your sense of taste?" she inquired playfully. "Because I gotta a whole lotta you on my lips." His optics only widened in response as she dove into a messy kiss. He moaned into her mouth, rolling his optics back as he felt the mix of fluids. Did he dare tell her how much more heightened his senses were over the typical bot's taste nodes? He decided to leave that alone, fearing how she might abuse it. It took all his focus not to overload by the thought of what she just did to his spike. The pleasure house femmes he frequented were now his biggest waste of his credits ever.

Chromia opened her interface panel then arched her hips up to slide down upon his now aching spike. He broke the kiss with a shocked yelp of ecstasy then tilted his head back, face contorting almost painfully. She leaned back and watched him curiously, her body barely pulsing upon him. His hands lingered motionless on her thighs, his optics avoiding hers. He didn't appear to be enjoying himself. She furrowed her brow with disappointment then popped her optics wide at the sudden rush of fluid inside her.

He dropped his head with a bursting ventilation, reveling in the residual surges jolting through his chassis.

She didn't know what to think, lingering somewhere between insult and amusement. Apparently her needs weren't a priority in his world, but she cracked the inevitable smile anyway. "Huh…that was…quick" she scoffed. Longarm dared to lift a sheepish look at her which she simply shook her head at.

They left the office soon after that, exchanging very few words before splitting off to their private quarters. Longarm could only curse himself for how little effort it took to play the hapless geek.

_~end flashback~_

Sunstorm sprawled comfortably on one of the main room's oversized cushions, and Chromia lay perpendicular to him, her head resting on his thigh. Even Brawn had gathered to hear the tale and leaned against the wall next to them, face lit with a half-smile. "Heh…Cliffjumper told me about the comm call, but I never knew this aspect of it" chuckled the bouncer.

"Oh dear Primus, Brawn" complained Chromia "the comm call was the highlight of the evening. He didn't even try to get up a second time, either. Simply shoved me off his lap and mumbled an order for me to lock up the room while he scurried out to attend to a 'sudden business matter'."

Prowl emerged from the storage room, carrying a box clanging with bottles and glowering at the femme's last comment. "Have you no respect for a client's confidentiality?" he barked.

Chromia rolled her optics. "No, Prowl" heavy emphasis on his name, "I don't. Not after how he left me that night. I actually had to seek out Sentinel to get my kicks, and since I NEVER typically initiated 'facin with that fragger, he OL'd prematurely too out of stupefied shock."

Strika burst out from the office door and stormed down the stairs to the gathering of slackers. Brawn instantly peeled himself from the wall and searched for some kind of task, while Sunstorm nearly split his face open with an innocent grin. Before Chromia could dream up an excuse, the large golden hand wrapped around her neck again and flung her up to the balcony.

"I tell you to prepare!" scolded Strika. "I do not pay you to yooslezzly exzerzize your wocalizerz." She dropped her glare back down to the lounging jet. "And you!" She reached for Sunstorm's neck but the seeker dodged her with an agile leap and blasted himself up to the balcony. This action further infuriated the madam. "How many timez I tell you do not fly indoorz! You zcorch ze furnishingz!"

Sunstorm leaned over from his safe spot on the balcony. "My sincerest apologies, Madam General Strika" drawled the jet. "Shall I come back down there so you can properly beat me?"

"No!" she snapped. Her perma-frown pinched in irritation as she shooed the jet's pandering away. "Go trim grazz in organic room!"

Prowl's attention peaked to possible defiling of his favorite room. "Madam Strika, please don't allow him in there" pleaded the bartender. "I will attend to it once I am finished setting up here."

Strika's annoyance at the escorts carried over to the ninja and she eyeballed his ragged white apron with disapproval. "Vhere iz your new apron? Arzee buy you new apron, why you not vear it!?"

Prowl attempted to play ignorant as he put away the bottles. "New apron? I was not aware—"

"You avare now!" continued the madam. "I eggzpect to zee it on you tonight." She turned to shift her lecturing to everyone. "Vee open in vun mega-zycle but I vant eweryzing ready to go in half zat time. Ve are entertaining Megatron's right-hand bot tonight, so ve need to make gud imprezzion."

A resounding 'Yes Madam' mumbled from all corners of the room.

***

Shockwave spent the majority of his waking hours ensuring the smooth operations of Megatron's Gladiatorial Arena. His Second-in-Command title was replaced with Senior Events Manager following the Decepticons' settlement in Kaon, but his tasks didn't seem to alter much. He still researched, calculated, organized and reported, all of which he did flawlessly. He would work after hours to double check the work he did on hours. He had no life outside of Megatron's beck-and-call and where that normally would've suited him during wartime, he found himself feeling incomplete and surprisingly bored with the recreational industry.

His processor would often wander back to his time as a double-agent, when most waking moments were laced with tension and ultimately, excitement. Being a Decepticon, he enjoyed the game of deception and prided himself on how good he was at it. There was very little Shockwave didn't pride himself on and only a couple incidences that taunted him with shame. The drunken tank racing incident back on Earth was one of these, but it cowered in comparison to the humiliation he felt from a particular encounter with a past protégé.

That stinging encounter was the motivation behind Shockwave's plans for the evening. The idea of paying to redeem his past failure wasn't ideal, but he was grateful for the opportunity regardless. He stood in his office, his single optic beholding a bottle of scented oil as if it were an alien artifact. He carefully twisted the cap off and lowered his antennae to sample the air above it. The sound of his office's door opening caused him to jerk and splash some oil down his chest. He jolted his attention to the door to witness Megatron entering.

The arena boss pinched his face at the strong aroma now suffocating the room and immediately locked his focus to the small cosmetic. "What's this?" Megatron said, gravelly voice pitched up a notch with curiosity. "Is the devoted Shockwave actually attempting a social life tonight?"

Shockwave was glad he didn't have a standard face because its expression would've screamed guilt like a juvenile caught overloading himself. He took a moment to regain his composure, reminding himself that he's gifted at the art of deception, and accepted the situation at hand as a challenge: a challenge that promised severe punishment if he failed.

"My Lord" spoke Shockwave respectfully. He wanted to ask 'why don't you ever fragging knock?' but went the more respectable route instead. "I am engaging in a business meeting this evening. We are to review the specifications of interfacing, I mean!..A new interface design for the ticketing kiosks." A string of internal cursing bombarded his processor at such a careless slip.

Megatron raised a questioning brow. "This meeting requires you to wear scented oil?"

"We are…meeting at Blaster and Vibe's Night Club which, as you know, requests of its patrons a higher degree of respectability in comparison to the recreational establishments in Kaon.

The former gladiator rolled his optics as he turned away in waning interest. "They are called 'bars', Shockwave." He stopped in the doorway and looked back over his shoulder. "The B&V regularly caters to Elite Guard officials. Make sure you do not attract unnecessary attention to yourself."

"Of course, my liege, I will conduct my business with discretion."

***

The red lights of Inamorato's main room danced seductively upon every plush pillow and shimmering curtain. Its sultry glow boasted a seamless chemistry with the purring ambiance of subliminally arousing music, which crept into the corners the light could not reach. Brawn stood firm at the grand double doors, arms proudly crossed across his puffed chest. The escorts were perched in the balcony, leaning into the railing, each one boasting a pose that blatantly exaggerated their dynamic curves. Chromia watched with sheer enjoyment at the drama emerging from the bar.

Prowl stood at his station, arms raised from his sides as Arcee nearly hugged his tiny waist to untie the apron strings of an unacceptably stained apron. His face screamed of impatience at the reality of being undressed like a doll. Arcee pulled the apron off him, cringing at its sorry state before tossing it behind her, then grabbed from the bar stool next to her, a sheen crimson cloth of a similar size and shape. Prowl glowered at the sight of it.

"What is wrong with my current apron?" he whined. "It is quite functional and washes much better than this, satin material does."

"Satin is sexy, love." She held the apron up between her and Prowl, looking upon it with approval before diving her arms back around the bartender's trim waist. "Just like you. And I cannot allow one of Inamorato's finest pieces of optic candy to hide his adorable curves under a rag." She yanked the ties into their first knot then tugged at Prowl's hips, forcing him into a half-turn so she could get at his back side. She tied a bow and began obsessively arranging it so it didn't obstruct the view of his perfect little aft.

A tall purple mech, bearing an elegantly sinister design, appeared in the doorway. Inamorato's first and most anticipated customer of the night had arrived. He entered the main room apprehensively, flashing a paranoid glance down at Brawn, who cringed at the overpowering waft of cologne. The gaze of his single red optic scanned the room and then crept up the stairs to meet the Cheshire Cat grin of his former protégé. Chromia immediately left her post and glided down the stairs. The shimmering translucent fabric draped over her wings trailed behind her, its blue color reflecting purple when hit with red light.

Shockwave straightened his posture and slowly approached the base of the stairs, feeling his joints slightly weaken at the femme's unexpected grace. He should've predicted it would be short-lived. Chromia took note of his ideal positioning and hopped upon the railing to slide down the remainder of the stairs and land squarely in his reactive claws.

"Evening Shockwave", giggled the femme as she caressed his purple insignia.

"Good evening Chromia. Your aesthetics are quite satisfac—quite stunning."

She slid out of his arms a grabbed his talons, guiding him up the stairs. "Thank you, sir. Your cologne is…it's really…" she stopped after a couple steps. "Would you like to get a drink first?"

"I will purchase a beverage for you if you wish." He replied dryly.

Chromia watched Arcee continue to fuss with Prowl's apron strings and decided she'd rather not rescue the bartender from such adorable torture. With a sly smile, she turned back to Shockwave. "I'll pass, thank you."

Sunstorm watched the pair emerge onto the balcony and decided tact wasn't something he felt like practicing at the moment. "Shockwave. Might I say what a pleasure it is to be reunited with such a loyal colleague. Be sure to thank Megatron on my behalf for leaving Ramjet and myself behind in during your breakout. Had we escaped with you, we would never have had the fortune of gaining employment in such a-

Arcee's optics brightened hotly, her voice blasting directly toward the brazen seeker. "Politics at the door mister!" Prowl flinched at the raging voice's close proximity to his audio receptors. Sunstorm cowered at bit, and then backed off to let Shockwave and Chromia enter their room in peace. Arcee relaxed and turned to Prowl apologetically. "Sorry, love."

"Why red?" Prowl sighed over his shoulder. Arcee guided his hips to turn him back around.

"Red is the universal color of lust, dear Prowl." she said in her school teacher tone. She snatched his towel off the bar and scrubbed a smudge off his insignia. "You should wear it with pride. It is the color of your faction."

"It is your faction too" Prowl retorted "and what happened to 'leaving politics at the door'?" He arrogantly turned to finally resume setting up his station, but yelped pathetically when Arcee snapped his aft with his signature towel.

"Watch yourself, cheeky!" warned Arcee as she flung his towel a him. "You pull that attitude around Strika and you won't have a nose to stick in the air anymore." The candy-striped madam adjusted her fishnet gloves as she pinned Prowl with a stern look. He bowed his head with an angry pout as she strolled off authoritatively.

***

Chromia sat innocently with Shockwave on the edge of the burgundy canopied bed of the Classic Room. Only a couple cycles had passed since they entered the room. They had inevitably fallen into small talk as that seemed the most logical approach to take, given the unique history they had together.

Chromia curled one leg under her body as she leaned in closer to the mech. "I knew something was off about you, but I never suspected you to be a 'con. Hell, if I knew that, I woulda jumped your chassis at every opportunity." Chromia was never fond of small talk, especially when a dancer's pole was calling her name.

Shockwave's optic gleamed with what must have been a blush. "You were quite convincing as well. I never suspected your disloyalty to the Autobots."

She scooted closer to him, placing her hands on his knees, and lifting an optic ridge to him. "This small talk doing anything for ya?"

"Not really, no." He shifted his attention around the room, soaking in the reserved and rustic décor. "Are you pleased with the surroundings I have chosen for us?"

"Uhh…you picked this room for me?" She glanced around unimpressed.

"Yes, I assumed it would be your favorite. The others listed in the brochure lack sophistication."

"In case you hadn't noticed, hun, so I do." She slid her hands up his thighs and dropped down to her knees on the floor. "But I'm flattered you thought so highly of me." Just like before, a simple strategic pressure to his inner thighs and away went his interface panel. She was instantly put off by his only partially aroused spike, especially since it appeared to be the same spike as Longarm's. Everything else about this 'con was longer now, why not is fraggin' spike?

Shockwave casually leaned back onto his shoulders and vented a long sigh as she started stroking him. She threw a few frustrated licks in to compensate for his lack of lubrication. "Are those chains wrapped around the canopy frame?" He pondered, strangely relaxed.

"Yes" she replied dryly. "All rooms are equipped with bondage gear." She started intently massaging the base of his spike with one hand and slid a couple fingers into his annoyingly dry valve. Her mouth closed down around the indifferent spike and she unleashed the fury of her glossa upon it, convinced that her prized technique could make even the most non-sentient calculator instantaneously evolve an erect spike.

After a couple cycles and a thorough exhausting of her glossa, his spike finally reached an erection comparable to Longarm's. She bitterly wiped her mouth and climbed upon his lap, straddling his hips with her knees and lowering her valve over the hard-earned length. This should get him, she thought, just like last time. She relaxed her tension at feeling him inside her, and began lightly thrusting her hips, swaying to the thrumming bassline bleeding in from the main room. She knew she would be back on the dance floor soon enough this evening, but was going to make damn sure she got some satisfaction from him this time. She rolled her head back and softly moaned, her chassis warming more and more with each thrust.

Shockwave watched her curiously, enjoying the sight of her arching body as her hands slid up her thighs, stomach, chest and neck. "You are enjoying this." He mused.

Her optics fluttered on. "Yes, I am" she replied breathily. "Aren't you?" she sincerely wondered.

"With certainty." He replied casually.

She furrowed her brow, her voice heavy with arousal. "Coulda…fooled me."

"Our first encounter is not to be repeated", stated Shockwave, blatantly. "I have learned some…self control since then. I can also take advantage of ALL my retractable appendages now that my identity is not an issue."

She beheld him wide-eyed. "You mean—OOOHHhhh!" She violently arched, hollering with a painful ecstasy as the length inside her extended and ignited every unsuspecting node in her valve. Her walls contracted, massaging the improbable spike against her will and coating it with a flood of her transfluid. Her helplessness invoked another level of arousal from the lanky purple 'con and he sat up to wrap his talons around her frame. He slowly lifted her, her wetness dripping down his spike, then dropped her back down, thrilled by her resulting lustful grunt. He repeated this, her vocalizations growing louder with each drop.

She was dumbfounded. How was this possible? Did his Autobot disguise suppress the sexual beast that is apparently Shockwave? She found a window between her uncontrolled moans to confront him on this.

"What's…your story?" she growled undignified.

If Shockwave could smile pompously, he would be at the moment. "I have experimented in meditative techniques."

"Oh Primus" she rolled her optics "Not another Circuit-su junkie." This made her think of Prowl, which was not ideal. Her chassis locked up, every sensory node suddenly engorged. The feel of Shockwave's unbelievable spike coupled with the image of the ninja in that damned satin apron would surely bring on her overload. Not yet, she thought, wait until he's ready. She wiped Prowl from her processor and gazed intently into the single red optic. She couldn't fathom his size. It didn't make sense. She assumed no mech, outside of Megatron, could ever achieve that length. Her chassis locked again. Shockwave arched his hips, thrusting deeper into her. Bad time to think about Megatron, she thought regretfully. She arched and threw her head back; overload penetrating every circuit, her vocals erupting, transfluid seeping down to Shockwave's pelvic plating.

She collapsed onto his chest, heavily ventilating, practically drooling on his insignia. "Oh my fucking Primus." She moaned at the feel of his talons gently running up and down her back.

"Did that feel good?" he purred, which she thought was rather odd because Shockwave wasn't known for purring. She must have somehow pulled a hefty overload from him to invoke a purr, and considering that she was completely wrapped up in her own pleasure rather than his, she was very impressed with herself, despite her uncharacteristic exhaustion after only one overload. She suddenly decided to believe in Primus so she could thank him for allowing Shockwave to book her for the entire night. Drifting into recharge and dreaming of her amazing and effortless sexual mastery and how she could use it on Megatron was now the only thing on her mind. She was still on the clock however, and should probably inquire to her client's needs before indulging her subconscious narcissism.

"How are you feeling, tall, long and…long?" she asked with minimal sincerity.

"I feel ready" replied Shockwave with an inappropriately perky voice. "Ready to put my tantric disciplines into practice."

She heard him but only half-comprehended. "Say what?" she mumbled into his chest. She felt his spike still throbbing inside her, no shrinkage at all, in fact, it felt bigger. "Tantric" the pieces started falling into place. "Wait a minute. Wait just an All-Sparked min—ACK!!" She suddenly found herself face down on the bed, her face half-buried in a pillow, her hands splayed out as the talons that just moments ago, tenderly caressed her chassis, now forcefully pinned her wrists. The massive length pushed back into her and she screamed in response.

"Did I hurt you?" he inquired, voice devoid of intonation.

"Yes!" she barked, voice muffled by the pillow.

"Would you like me to be gentle?" he continued.

She chewed on the thought. Gentle would probably put her into recharge. She did not want to recharge anymore, not while the pit froze over and Shockwave assumed the role of Interfacing Champion.

"No!" she grunted.

"Good" he purred…again.

The next few cycles felt like an eternity as the imposter wearing Shockwave's chassis forcefully thrust in and out of her, breaking the pattern with a random slap to her aft and gripping of her hips. She didn't hear her own screams anymore. She was not really sure why she bothered screaming but safely assumed that if she didn't, the sensory overload would make her processor explode.

The thrusting stopped. She seized the opportunity to catch her ventilations, but was quickly pulled onto the mech's lap, her back flush to his stomach, his beastly spike still buried in her. One set of talons slithered around her hip down her upper thigh and into the folds of her exposed cables. He uncovered her hidden node and toyed with it, squeezing it each time he pushed deeper inside her raw and aching valve. She could've melted. She leaned back into him to prevent slumping forward like a rag doll. Her head tilted back and she hazily looked into his single optic, which had strangely multiplied and its two blurry offspring were dancing around blissfully. His other claw scraped up her side, splaying across her chest and wrapping around her neck. He snaked a talon over her chin and into her mouth, causing her to moan weakly. It was all she could do. If someone could show her a bot with any strength left in their chassis after overloading on a spike like Shockwave's, she'd abandon everything she's ever known and start a new religion based solely on that bot's sheer improbability.

The next few mega-cycles passed and she miraculously stayed online. She had lost count of the positions, her valve had gone completely numb, and every prop in the room from furniture to bondage gear was utilized, quite creatively too; sometimes mixed and matched. She would've taken notes if she could manage the coordination of writing. She vaguely remembers dangling upside down from the bed canopy at one point. There was also a faint memory of being pinned to the ceiling by his extended arms. She wasn't really sure what the point of that was.

Another couple mega-cycles had passed. She now lay comfortably and normally on her back upon the disheveled bed, arms splayed from her sides, fingers clawing at the bared mattress. The only reason she wasn't in recharge was because her overtaxed and aching node was being held prisoner between her client's electrified antennae. He was sadistically enjoying her predictably unattractive convulsing. At this point, however, she really didn't give a scrap about appearances.

She was about slip into a trance, at least that's the best term she could think to describe it, when a familiar transforming sound aroused her attention. She restored some focus in her optics and brightened at the sight of Longarm Prime with a purple paint job. She managed a half-smile and chuckle as his face slithered up her chassis, stopping twice to kiss her stomach and neck then hovering innocently over her face. The innocence was short-lived as a Shockwave-sized spike thrust back into her, and Longarm's mouth pressed into hers.

He moved gently inside her, reading her expressions so as not to hurt her and brushing her cheek with his bulky, but soft fingers. He tenderly kissed each of her facial features then locked firmly back onto her lips. She sighed into his mouth, dreamily, sincerely, girly; something she never did and was specifically reserving it for her first interfacing with Megatron.

His lips pinched around hers and she felt his chassis shudder then release a rush of warm liquid inside her. She was surprised she still had enough sensation to feel his overload, but she did and it felt nice. He gently pulled out of her and slid to the side of her chassis, heavy arm draped possessively across her chest. She expected him to drift into recharge with her and was surprised when he planted one final kiss on her lips then rose from the bed.

He looked down at her with a proud smile. "You now have a new memory of the interfacing I am capable of."

She looked at him confused. "Who...you or Shockwave?" she muttered weakly.

He transformed back into Shockwave. "Both" he replied with his classic flatness then turned and left the room with a cold, satisfied air.

"Hey" she rasped in protest "I never agreed to a threesome." He didn't hear her. He was already gone. Shame… she liked her joke. She tried to file it away for a later retelling to the seekers, but conked out into recharge before it could properly form into a coherent memory.

***

The following dawn was a typical weekday morning at Inamorato. The bouncer had gone home, the seekers were out flying and Prowl was seated in the nook near the bar, reading tablet in hand. He systematically rose early to perform his Circuit-su routine in the organic room then retrieved the news tablet from the doorstep outside. He was pleased to read in peace as typically, Chromia was already awake and on his case by the time he emerged from the organic room. This morning, however, she was absent and he wasn't complaining.

Finally, the Classic Room's door creaked open and the missing femme staggered onto the balcony. After a couple steps, she had to stop and lean into the railing with a groan. Prowl raised a curious optic brow to her then resumed his reading, feigning disinterest. She attempted the painful task of walking down the stairs, each step pulling a different profanity from her. Prowl could no longer suppress his curiosity and lifted his full attention to her as she plodded, bow-legged to the nearest cushion and dropped onto her stomach with a relieved grunt.

"I promise never to tease you again" she murmured into the cushion "if you could do me this one favor." Prowl rose and headed straight for the bar.

"Polloniom Painkiller" predicted Prowl with a smirk, saying it in unison with the femme. He started collecting the elixir's components and couldn't resist fishing for information. "Am I correct in assuming" he said cheekily "that the night didn't turn out as you expected?"

She groaned into the cushion then propped her head up. "I have never been so humiliated, so outplayed, so used and so defiled."

Prowl peeks up with surprising concern.

Her face dropped into the cushion again with a sigh. "And I loved every moment of it."


	5. Barricade's Issues

Barricade's Issues by antepathy

_A/N: Apparently Blackout/Barricade is a standard pairing in Bayverse. Me, I go TFA for these two. TECHNICALLY, Barricade isn't in the TFA-verse, but Toyz here drew a picture of him just for me! So here he is! _

http : // .com / art /T FA-Barricade-Sketch - 144741239

**Part One:**

Blackout smiled, thinking how pissed Barricade would be if he knew about this: about how Blackout always set his internal chrono to pull him out of recharge a few cycles before him so that Blackout could turn his head, slowly, to look at him. Just to look. And, okay, maybe a little to giggle. But quietly.

It was fraggin' adorable. Seriously. Every night they'd co-recharged, Barricade had done this…this thing. This thing where he'd rest his cheek on Blackout's shoulder, his arms and legs wrapping one of Blackout's larger arms in a possessive embrace. And the look on his face was…sweet.

Barricade would purge if he ever saw himself looking like that. The angelic, peaceful smile, sometimes accompanied by soft whimpering noises, his two arms wrapped tightly around Blackout's upper arm like he was a droneling with a stuffed toy. Fraggin' adorable. One time Blackout tried to hug him back, and had gotten a punch in the face for his effort. Well, Barricade had some issues in the conflict-resolution department. Then again, who among the Decepticons didn't?

Blackout tried to resettle his face in suitably neutral lines as his chrono clicked over to when Barricade set his alarm. Right on cue, Barricade shifted, his one thigh sliding across the guns on Blackout's forearm. The smaller mech gave a 'mmmmm,' sound, his optics slowly onlining. And then.

"What the frag are you lookin' at?"

Blackout grinned. "The mech who's got his spike poking into my hand, maybe? You want something, Barricade?"

"Frag it. Always want that." He ran one of his smaller hands down the seams in Blackout's wrist armor. The copter shuddered. "How much time we got?"

"Half a megacycle," Blackout frowned.

"Half a—I knew I should have paid last night. Couldn't you spring the few extra creds to stay a few extra megas?"

"Not that," Blackout rolled to his side. He'd told Barricade about this. Had he forgotten? Already? He brushed his free hand along one of Barricade's upper tires, idly. "Told you. I start that new job today."

Barricade released Blackout's arm, flopping back on the berth, one hand melodramatically over his face. "Job!? Frag that!"

"Barricade," Blackout hoped his voice sounded reasonable. "Our creds won't last forever." They'd been handsomely paid at the end of the war, but that could only go so far. Barricade wasn't one to think long term about money. Or anything. "Besides. It's a good job."

"No job is good if it's legal." He peeked at Blackout through his talons. "Fine. What's so awesome about this fraggin' job," he sighed, not even bothering to inflect it as a question.

"Good enough for Lugnut to do the same thing," Blackout said, hotly. "I mostly get to stand around and look scary."

"Slag, they pay mechs for that? Peacetime sucks." Barricade hated that he was small and not very intimidating looking. All of his weaponry came from his vocalizer.

"It's supposed to be a cool place."

"Cool. Right. Like you're an expert."

Blackout leaned over, pulling Barricade's arm off his face. "Cool enough for you," he said.

"Only with you because you make me look so damn good by comparison."

"Right." Blackout spun Barricade's tire, grinning as the smaller mech hissed with pleasure.

"Don't start what you can't finish, eggbeater." Barricade squirmed, his spike poking Blackout in the torso as he leaned over him.

"Me? Not starting anything. Because I have to go to my new job." Blackout wished Barricade could pretend to be a little happy. Blackout himself was kind of excited. He liked Strika, and the place really did seem cooler than space bunnies and he was getting in just when it started. "Was thinking we could maybe use that money to get us a real place."

"Uh, this place looks pretty real to me." Barricade tapped on the chipped enamel of the berth.

"I meant like a permanent place. Our place." No more of these by-the-megacycle pay berths.

"Our."

Blackout sighed. Barricade also had…relationship issues. One of them was complete and utter denial that he was in one. "Yes. Two mechs can live together without it meaning anything," he said, tartly, even though he didn't want to say it. He wanted Barricade to actually want to be with him. But…he'd compromise.

"So, what? I'd be living off you? Some kind of fraggin' parasite?" Barricade snapped.

"No!" Blackout said, hurriedly. But he knew Barricade was only acting like this because he was afraid he'd be lonely. They'd been spending every megacycle together since they'd officially demobilized. And they were so good together. "Hey, why don't you come with me?"

"Right. And get sucked into some sort of wage slave nonsense? No thanks."

"Barricade. It's got a bar. You can drink."

"Lots of places I can drink that don't have damn copters in gainful employment trying to suck me into their proletarian ways."

Blackout's rotors twitched in irritation. "Barricade, stop it. You're coming with me."

"You gonna make me?"

Blackout folded his arms across his broad chassis, looking at Barricade from under his supraorbital crest. "Is that what it's going to take? You know I can."

"I am not," the smaller mech pouted, "getting a job."

Blackout grinned, ducking down and planting a kiss on Barricade's mouth. "You don't have to. But this way, you can make better fun of mine."

******

Barricade was bored. BORED. There wasn't a font big enough to capture the essence of the boredom he truly felt. And more, he felt like a loser. Watching Blackout bounce through his first half-shift of his new…job (blah! A disgusting word that caused him a shudder every time it crossed his processor!) was making him feel bad. Uneven. Like he wasn't pulling his weight.

Pulling his weight in what? He and the big moron were just friends, that's all. Sure, Blackout was fraggin' amazing in the berth. And yeah, so Barricade let his guard down—a lot!—in front of the copter. But that didn't mean anything. Just friends. Who recharged together. And interfaced. A lot.

Maybe…maybe all that interfacing was causing Blackout's personality to rub off on him? Maybe enough transfer of transfluid and the other mech started eating into your processor? Barricade shivered. No way: he did not have a thing for the copter.

He took another long swallow of his medium-grade. Paid for, ostentatiously, by Blackout. Any other mech, and Barricade would have expected it to be serious guilt-trippage. But no: Blackout really was that 'nice'. It was amazing he'd survived as a Decepticon.

A bulky-looking grey and red mech walked by the corner nook he'd commandeered for himself, his long legs stretched out on the plush cushion, poking into the aisle. The mech turned, walked back again, optics dropped. Barricade shifted nervously, trying to place him. Who was this red mech? Why did he turn—again—and troll by like he was waiting for Barricade to say something? Barricade's paranoia came up like an extra set of sensors.

Barricade followed him with his optics, his toes wiggling in irritation. Not a damn employee, he thought. I do NOT have a job. Not even here. Though. I would be good at it. Getting paid to interface? Nah. Money made EVERYTHING boring. Probably even that. The mech turned back, and this time Barricade could clearly see the Autobot insignia on his armor. The mech stopped next to the table, eyes downcast.

"Uh," he said, slowly raising his optics, up Barricade's legs, his torso, to his face, where he got greeted by Barricade's patented 'go the frag away' expression. "You have really cute feet." The Autobot ducked his head.

Well, that was random. Unless the bot meant…. Barricade snatched his feet out of the aisle. "Thanks," he said, flatly. You have a really ugly chassis design, he said, mentally.

"Didja ever, you know…have anyone do them?" The Autobot's eyes lingered over Barricade's toe plates.

_DO _them? Now, Barricade was not a mech who fell off the kinky truck yesterday, in fact, he considered himself generally to be a driver on the regular route, but, really? Eww. He had his limits. "No." He pitched a little force in the tone, like chastising a bad puppy. You, he thought, are not authorized to have pervy ideas about my feet.**_ I_** do not have pervy ideas about my feet, and I have pervy ideas about EVERYTHING. Like the copter's damn rotors.

"It's really good," the bot slurred. Oh, that explained it: the only way Autobots could even think about interfacing was probably if they were hammered halfway off their stabilizers. Also explained how/why he was ignoring Barricade's GO AWAY signs. "Really, baby. 's good. I can show you." He reached out and grabbed the front spur of Barricade's right foot.

Barricade jerked upright, trying to snatch his foot back, bumping hard enough against the table to slosh his half-drunk mid-grade. "Get off me, you filthy Autobot!"

He was aware of a sudden silence in the bar, as if someone had hit some sort of time freeze. The Autobot froze, his hands locked around Barricade's spur. And then the big shape of Blackout lumbering over. Barricade knew better than to expect any sort of special treatment—Blackout always took any damn job way too seriously. He just shrugged, jerking his foot out of the Autobot's hand.

"Right," Blackout said. "No politics. No factions." He met Barricade's optics a bit apologetically.

"Touching me," Barricade muttered. He squirmed under the reprimand. Wasn't his fault. He didn't care about any of that political stuff. But that didn't mean he was going to lower himself to being perved by one of them.

Blackout turned to the Autobot. "Let's all have a nice time, okay? Patron here doesn't want to be bothered. How 'bout you go get another round with your friends." He pushed in, cutting between their fields of vision, giving Barricade a good look at his rotor mounts. Which did not improve Barricade's mood. The Autobot slumped off, and the noise began to pick up, slowly around the bar.

"Really," Blackout teased, "Never thought you'd meet a kink you didn't like."

"My feet!" Barricade folded in half, clutching his foot possessively, as if the Autobot might have damaged it.

Blackout chuckled. "Seriously." Blackout reached over, plucking Barricade's foot out of his lap and bringing it to his face. "Kiss and make better?" He winked, and licked his glossa slowly along the sole.

"Ggguuuuuuuuhhhhh," Barricade's optics widened. His toe plates curled reflexively, his talons clutching the upholstery under him. He decided he already hated the copter working here. It was giving him…ideas. Ideas that felt really, really good. He felt his spike lubricate in its housing as Blackout slid his glossa between Barricade's toes. "Stop it," he whispered, without any real force behind it.

"Gotta," Blackout said, lowering the foot with reluctance. "Still on the clock. Might want to keep those to yourself, though." He grinned. "And we'll be paying for another round for you."

"Don't need your fraggin' charity," Barricade muttered. The sudden spike in his arousal did not have positive effects on his mood—especially knowing that Blackout intended him to be horny and frustrated for the rest of his shift. The sole of his foot tingled.

"Not charity. Customer was upset. We make it right." He smiled. Barricade frowned—oh Primus, Blackout was already talking 'we', like he was the damn place instead of its hired thug. Blackout pulled a blue chit out of his storage and placed it on the table. "Just give that to the bartender when you're ready. Me, I gotta get back to work." Blackout moved off into the crowd, turning, once, to give Barricade another wink over his shoulder, flexing his rotors suggestively.

Conclusive proof, Barricade thought, flipping the house-cred chip idly between his talons, that jobs ruined mechs.

**Part Two**

*****

Barricade was more than a little drunk. It took a while—the rest of the spilled drink, his replacement paid for by the blue chip Blackout had flipped him, and then two more paid for out of his own money. Which had made him more depressed and upset when he realized that Blackout was right—their creds weren't going to last forever.

He figured that at least he was quiet and keeping to himself, arms wrapped protectively around his drink, glaring sullenly at anyone who looked big enough to be Blackout. Stupid copter. And his stupid job. And his stupid turning-Barricade-on-and-then-going-back-to-work. And then his stupid let's move in idea. Pissed him off.

Well, the last one actually kind of scared him—he wasn't so hot at relationships that didn't end in overload. But being scared pissed him off so…close enough. He took another swallow of his drink. Almost empty. And another megacycle until Blackout's shift was over. And knowing Blackout, he'd want to stay and be all social with his new 'team'. Frag. Damn copter thought everyone was a 'team'.

Frag it. Maybe he could find someone to spot him some credits. Buy him a drink—maybe even high grade. He looked around for the damn Autobot with the foot perv. Eh, he'd done worse for money before. If the Autobot wanted to worship his pedes for a price, he could worship away. And it would serve Blackout right for getting him all hot about it.

Of course, the usual Decepticon luck for good ol' Barricade—the red and grey mech was nowhere to be found. Frag! He'd have to find someone else. Well, so what? He was plenty hot—he could flirt his way into someone's cred supply in record time if he put his mind it. Right. He straightened up, running a hand over his face to make sure his finials were clean and pointing in the right direction, and pushed to his feet. He'd go chat up some of those mechs at the bar. Probably couldn't pull off 'sweet innocent and gamine' anymore, but it wasn't a huge step from that to 'drunk enough to take advantage of'. Which wasn't much of a stretch on his acting skills, either, at the moment.

He was wobbling over to the bar on his apparently sexy feet when a newer and better idea struck him. Actually, it was more like he saw someone he recognized who would be good for a few rounds.

Starscream. Barricade considered that the mech had gyros of tungsten alloy for daring to show up a) on Cybertron and b) in Kaon with a price on his head. Which…could come in handy later, Barricade thought. Financial shortage, meet reward money. But in the meantime, Starscream slunk around the room, sticking to the edges, hands wringing each other. The paint job was new—black and purple—but it wouldn't fool anyone. Not anyone who had ever looked Starscream in the optics before.

Barricade waited his chance, and then slapped the larger mech squarely in the aft. "Long time no—huh?" The mech had disappeared. Just like that. Not run away, not moved. Literally, just, like, vanished. Barricade ran a diagnostic on his optics. Nope, they were fine. Then what the…? Had he been hallucinating? What the frag did these Inamorato people slip in their oil?

Out of the corner of his wider-set optics, Barricade saw one of the long burgundy velvet curtains move. Shivering, almost. Wow. He knew Screamer was a wuss, but, really. He crossed over and poked at the curtain. "Know you're in there."

"Please," the voice was muffled and cringing enough to be TWO Starscreams' worth, "don't hurt me!"

Barricade blinked. "Not gonna hurt you, stupid mech."

The curtain moved, two hands clutching the edge of it close to a liquescent pair of optics. Starscream, hiding behind a curtain. Oh, this was too good. "What? Don't you remember me?"

"You're the scary one from five cycles ago." He said it as though that were the sum total of knowledge he had on the subject.

Barricade tilted his head, puzzled. "Oooookay. What's your name?" Maybe Starscream had amnesia? It had happened. Moreover, if it had happened, Barricade saw a way to easy profit.

"S—skywarp," the mech cringed down behind the curtain again. "Don't hurt me!" wafted out on a whisper.

"Dammit, not going to hurt you," Barricade said, irritably. Skywarp? Wasn't that one of those ill-gotten clones? This was interesting. All thought of profit fled—Barricade saw something he didn't know and that was the strongest lure he knew. "Come on out—we can go sit down over there and talk."

"Safer in here," the mech said, and ducked down again, as if expecting Barricade to hit him for talking back. This one was definitely one of Starscream's clones.

"Really? You know what this place is, right? Wanna guess how many germs are on that curtain?" He heard a faint 'pop' and then staggered under the sudden weight of the larger mech who somehow just—appeared—on top of him, muttering something about deadly germs and a distinct lack of hand sanitizer in the establishment. Great. Barricade staggered back over to the table he'd been at all night, carrying the jet unsteadily "Here!" he gasped. "Sit here. Germ free." The black jet looked at him dubiously, but peeled his arms from around Barricade's head and slid onto the seat, scrunching down to take up as little space as possible. Barricade thought about going for another drink, but then the jet might bolt on him. Or do that 'pop' thing again.

"So," Barricade said, sitting down across from the jet, trying his best to look earnest and sincere and unscary. "My name is Barricade."

"You're the scary one."

"I'm the--? Yeah, fine. Whatever. So, Skywarp. What brings you here?"

"I had no place to go! It's dark outside and do you know what kind of scary mechs are out at this hour in Kaon?"

Yeah, normally Barricade. Before Blackout got this slag of a job.

"So, you came here."

"This place looked safe. Well, less scary. A-and I heard some of the others were here too." He ducked his head again, as if waiting for Barricade to slap him.

"Some of the others," he prompted, patiently.

"The other ones."

"Other clones? You all kind of look alike?"

"Yes! Have you seen them? Or--," he clutched his hands to his mouth, "has something happened to them? Oh no! This part of town is so dangerous!"

"I'm sure they're fine," Barricade said, trying to sound soothing, but he was getting a bit impatient. This was going to take forever. "So, what do you want from these other clones?"

"I don't know! It just seemed like it would be less scary if I was with them."

"You do know what they probably do if they work here, right?"

'Pop'. The black mech disappeared for an astrosecond, reappearing in exactly the same spot.

"What the frag was that?" Barricade snapped.

Skywarp cringed. "Sorry! I'm sorry! It just…happens when I get really scared and if I don't have a good place to go in mind I just warp right back and…."

"Never mind. I was just saying that if you're scared, here's probably not the best place for you."

"Do-do you have some place better to go?"

"I do." Take this, Blackout. See how many megacycles it takes you to figure out I'm not here. Enjoy your stupid fraggin' job, and your stupid 'team', and just keep on ignoring old 'Cade. Barricade can manage just fine on his own. "Say, Skywarp, you wouldn't happen to have any credits on you?" He tilted his eyes up at the jet in his most winsome manner.

*****

The inn was one of the five or six Blackout and he had been rotating around as having fairly reliable kiosks and not-too-filthy accommodations. They were used to filth—how many stellar cycles in the Decepticon army sort of inured one to berthing down in some pretty inhospitable circumstances. Skywarp had clung to Barricade the entire trip over, his claws surprisingly strong against the smaller mech's shoulder.

"Safe here," Barricade said, throwing open the door to the room. A metalloroach scuttled away from the wash of light from the opened door, causing the black jet to POP onto Barricade's shoulders again. "Get off," he said, patiently. "It's safe."

"But…bugs! Disease!"

"Not a bug. Little cleaning bot. Things are different here on Cybertron," he lied. He made sure to block the mech's vision of the rest of the room until he'd dragged him inside and coded the door.

"Okay," Skywarp said, his eyes darting fearfully around the bland cube. One positive thing about these inns is that there was no place the wussy jet could imagine monsters could hide. Just one berth and a lamp and a chair by the in-room maintenance facility. His shoulders relaxed a bit. "This seems not-so-scary." Well, that was an upgrade from 'scary' Barricade was willing to take.

He took the jet's hand and dragged him to the berth.

"What—what are you doing?"

Trying to get my damn money's worth, Barricade thought of saying. But then he realized this was all on Skywarp's creds. Right. Characteristic cynicism—cook up another snark. "Let's see if we can help you relax," he said, soothingly. "You trust me, right? Not scary any more?"

"No. You're not scary. Right now," the mech amended hurriedly.

"Just want to help you out, that's all. Now, get on the berth."

Optics wide, the larger jet perched himself on the edge of the berth.

Sigh. "Lay back. Like it's time to recharge."

"Okay." The mech flopped over, curling himself into a ball, wings folding forward over him like a protective clamshell.

Barricade seriously considered whanging his own head on the wall of the inn, but that would freak Skywarp out and then he'd start POPping again. Fine, he told himself. I can work with this. Make Blackout jealous one way or the other. No matter what it takes. He sat down on the berth in front of the clamshell of wings. He'd heard all sorts of things about the Seeker models and their wings—time to find out if any of it were true. He ran his talons over the expanse of dark wing in front of him. A sound like 'eeep!' escaped from the shelter of the wings.

"Just me," he said. "Just relax." He spread his hand, his whole palm contacting the surface of the wing. Another 'eep,' this time with a full-body shudder. "What are you doing?" a small voice said.

"Scaring you?"

"Not so scary." That seemed the top of Skywarp's continuum.

"Less scary if you could see it."

Skywarp hesitated, and then unfolded his wings. His knees were clutched tightly to his chassis. He turned bright nervous eyes to Barricade, watching as the smaller mech reached to trace the outside edge of his wing. "Less scary," he said, as if he were trying to convince himself. After a few more passes, he relaxed, even letting his optics drift closed. Barricade leaned in for a kiss.

POP. Barricade's face slammed onto the cold metal of the berth, then got driven against it as the Seeker rematerialized above him.

"Sorry!" Skywarp bounced off him. "I'm sorry. I told you, when I get…scared…."

"Yeah. Remember." Barricade sat back, rubbing his face. Damn thing dented one of his supraorbital finials. "Less scared now?"

"I think?"

"Right. Let's try that one again. You, don't pop out on me."

"I-I'll try…."

Barricade leaned in slowly, brushing his mouth against the jet's. Skywarp bleated, but at least he didn't warp. Barricade pushed a little harder, moving his mouth against the jet's. He heard the black mech's turbines cycle, and the eyes spiralled out with pleasure. So it was getting through. Well, of course. Barricade was good at this. He didn't even pop or scream or anything as Barricade pushed him flat onto his back, crawling over him, mouths still locked.

The mech trembled when he pulled away. Half from desire, half from…you guessed it, Barricade thought. "M-my turn?"

"If you want." Barricade didn't hold high hopes for this one.

Skywarp extended one hand, the talons lightly tracing the armored struts leading to Barricade's upper arm tire. Barricade grinned, encouragingly. The jet scooted a little closer, wrapping his hand around the end of the strut, running his fingers through the spokes in the tire's rim. Barricade felt his eyes drift close, pleasure tingling through his sensor net.

"Good?" the jet asked, shyly. The vibrations travelled through his hand, making his touch a light little, completely maddening tremor.

Barricade nodded. "See? Nothing to be afraid of."

"O-okay." Skywarp continued his exploration, his hand moving to Barricade's shoulder armor, long talons curving under the edge of the armored plate. This was nice. He was good at this.

He wasn't as good as Blackout, though.

Barricade frowned, pushing the thought from his processor. Who gives a frag about Blackout? Blackout slaggin' who? He reached, determinedly, to kiss Skywarp again. The mech shivered, but didn't pull away. And didn't POP. Progress. He pushed Skywarp down again, moving to push one of his knees between the larger jet's thighs. The jet squeaked. Barricade drew his hand along the jet's interface hatch and…POP, slammed face first onto the berth again.

"Ow," he said, as the jet rematerialized, his aft across Barricade's shoulders. "Take it," he said, his voice muffled, "that was a little too fast for you."

"Sorry!" Skywarp rolled off him, hands eagerly stroking at his fairings, his shoulders, blatantly trying to make it up to him.

"Sokay," Barricade muttered, pushing himself up. "Let's just accept that that's our limit for the night." He was starting to sober up and suddenly this didn't seem like such a good idea anyway. Even without the dents in his face. He hit the room's code and the lights dimmed. He rolled to his side, shuttering his optics, wondering if Blackout even missed him yet. His arms seemed…empty somehow.

**Part Three**

"B-b-Barricade?" A fearful voice tickled his audio. What time was it? CYCLES before his chrono alarm was set to go off. Blackout knew bette—oh. That wasn't Blackout's voice. It all came back to him in a rush: the cowardly clone, some drunk rationale that going off with him would make Blackout feel bad. Right. That hadn't worked. The only one feeling bad right now was Barricade. Who also had one hell of a hangover. Damn mech probably hadn't even commed him—oh, no, he had. Three times. Three messages. Barricade couldn't bring himself to listen to one of them. He winced. Rolled over. Oh, slag. The black and purply mech knelt on the berth next to him, hands twisting together.

He grunted.

"Last night, you wanted to…?"

"Yeah, that was LAST night," he said, sourly. Seriously thinking better of it. How could he ditch this mech?

"Yes, last night." Skywarp quivered as if someone had pinched him, watching Barricade. What the frag was this about?

"So?"

"Soooooooooo," Skywarp ducked his head, and then POPped, reappearing on top of Barricade, his mouth covering Barricade's before the smaller mech could even think to protest, his hips pushing at Barricade's pelvic plating. Barricade felt his spike lubricate at the touches, even while part of his cortex was freaking out. What the hell happened to the wussy part? Was he bipolar or something? The black jet's hands slid down Barricade's thighs, a soft moan in his throat that Barricade found answering with his own. The talons released his interface hatch, the spike cover autoreleasing before Barricade could override. This, he decided, was all Blackout's fault. He groaned as the jet took his spike in his hand, stroking along the length.

"Uhhhh, mind if I ask you something? Not gonna freak out on me or anything?"

"Okay," the jet said, breathily.

"How'd you learn to do this?"

The black mech tilted his head. "Don't know. Preexisting programming? Or," the eyes grew wide, "maybe alien control? Brainwashing? Close encounters of the fourth kind?" The hand on his spike started trembling. Which felt…awfully good.

Barricade reluctantly steadied the mech's hands with his own. "We'll go with preexisting programming."

"Okay." The jet looked unfeignedly relieved. "You feel good."

"Can make you feel better," Barricade winked, squirming his hips. What? If it was going to happen it was going to happen. Chances are one of the messages Blackout left, if not all of them, were of the 'go frag yourself' variety. He was most likely a single mech. Not that, you know, he and the damn copter had anything anyway. He did not have a thing for the damn copter.

The jet shrank back. Damn. The fear thing. Barricade got it: the purple pansy here had to be in control or he flipped out.

"Right," he said, quickly. "Do what you want. Whatever won't, you know, have you popping all over the fraggin' room."

"You mean it? You won't be mad?" Something vaguely worried Barricade about that, but the damn jet's hands were tormenting his spike and proper processing was just not happening. Against his better judgment, he nodded.

POP! The mech disappeared, snatching Barricade's wrists and slamming them over his head as he returned, his thighs pushing hard against Barricade's, his erect spike straining for the smaller mech's valve. With a shove, the jet seated his spike into Barricade's valve. Barricade whimpered. Blackout was way more gentle. But still, his sensornet fired happy signals at him, especially as the jet began thrusting in and out of the valve, spreading lubricant along the length, rubbing against sensor nodes. He let his eyes drift close, the steady rhythm of the spike against him pushing him further and further each time, raising his desire like an ion charge.

The jet's hands tightened on his wrists, causing him to flinch. His eyes opened, and he saw the earnest, half-fearful face staring down at him, keenly focused on his expression. He tried a strained smile. The jet shifted, pounding harder into him until he felt the jet overload in a hot wash against his valve that sent him spinning into his own release, his hands clutching helplessly on open air, still pinned by the jet's hands. The jet collapsed on top of him, cockpit catching him on the chassis. For a bleak klik, Barricade remembered the feel of Blackout collapsing on him in the same way, but the copter's broader mass rested squarely on his chassis, spreading the weight around. This…kinda hurt.

"Hey, uh…Skywarp?" he managed.

"Oh!" the jet pulled back onto his heel thrusters so fast his spike made its own little 'pop' releasing from Barricade's valve. Barricade winced. "Oh no! Sorry! I'm sorry!" Skywarp threw his hands up in front of his face as if to ward off a blow. "Please don't hurt me?"

Barricade sighed. "Not going to hurt you. It's okay." Primus, what was he going to do…? "How 'bout," he said, calmly, "you go do your daily maintenance, okay? While we still have the room."

The mech nodded, miserably. "O—okay. I'll go do that. As..as long as you're not mad or anything."

Barricade rolled his optics, shooing the mech off. He heard the sound of the taps running. No sense waiting any longer to let the sword drop on his head. He hit his comm, cycling up the most recent message. That should give him the Spark Notes.

//Barricade? Uh, yeah. It's me. Blackout. Oh. Right. You can tell by the comm freq. Anyway, been looking for you for hours. Starting to get worried. Real worried. You know, though, just as a friend. Or something. Comm me back as soon as you get this.//

Barricade swore. First at Blackout. Then his damn luck. Then at himself, as he hit his comm. "Blackout?"

Blackout's voice was relieved. "Are you okay? Tell me you're okay! I've been so worried. You were there and then you weren't and I was like freaking out and General Strika stayed up with me almost till dawn telling me you were tougher than you looked and could take care of yourself and I was just being silly and oh Primus it's so good to hear your voice!"

Barricade curled miserably on the berth. "Uh yeah," he said, softly. No sense making it any harder than it was. "Blackout? I fragged up. Big time."

"Oh no! You're not okay? Where are you? Do you need me to come get you? How much is the bail?"

"No." His tanks swirled like he was going to purge. Dammit, Blackout, why can't you be a jerk. Like me.

"I-uh, I was with someone else last night." Across the room, he heard the taps shut off. "I'm sorry."

A rush of air across the line. Barricade bit his lip, bracing himself for the copter's anger.

"Is that all?" Blackout said. "Primus, I thought you were dead!"

"So…hearing I cheated on you is like nothing by comparison?" He would never figure out Blackout's moral compass.

A laugh that stunned Barricade. "Actually, it's a hell of a something. To cheat, you little pervert, you have to be in a relationship first. You just finally admitted it." He crowed. "And you know what I'm going to make you do to apologize, don't you?"

Barricade groaned. "Get a job?"

Another laugh. "No way. I don't think you could handle it, you little wuss." Barricade bridled. Blackout was pushing just about every one of his buttons. And on purpose. And he deserved it. "You're moving in with me."

Oh slag.


	6. A Wager of Decency

_A/N: So, I didn't intend to write more Chromia so soon, but this story was itching to be told. There's plenty of Prowl in it though, plus those silly Starscream clones. Remember, Ramjet always lies and Sunstorm is a suck-up._

_For some Chromia fan art and a picture of the bath chamber, check out DeviantArt under the username TheInamorato. There's also direct link to this on our profile page here._

_There's a lot of reference to Chromia and Prowl's past, some of which is explained in more detail in my story A Time for Trust, which can be found here on FF under the name ToyzInTheAttic._

_One more thing, a disclaimer: I pull A LOT of inspiration for Prowl's characterization from the author Demyrie. She's a genius with Prowl/Lockdown and I borrowed her use of "fluid vocals" to describe the weak-knee effects of Prowl's voice. She should trademark that term...it's so perfect.  
_

_Now, on with TEH ROBOSEKS! =D  
_

_

* * *

_**A Wager of Decency**_ by ToyzInTheAttic  
_

The crisp air of the Cybertronian morning danced along Chromia's wings like an old friend. She had almost forgotten how invigorating flight was, having very little use for it as an Elite Guard Diplomat (and as an Elite Guard prisoner). Now that she was serving her sentence under house arrest as an Inamorato 'diplomat', she took every available opportunity to stretch her wings. This meant joining Ramjet and Sunstorm in their routine, but chaperoned, morning flights which were essential to a seekers' physical and mental wellbeing. She couldn't remotely keep up with them, but that didn't matter. She was content to flitter around in her moth mode, enjoying the only point of the day that offered some solitude. Granted, this solitude was serenaded with rocketing turbines overhead, and the jets' toying with whichever of Strika's mechs (Lugnut or Blackout) was stuck babysitting them, but she wasn't going to complain. There were always worse situations she could be in.

Chromia didn't have the inherent need for flight the way the jets did and could go long stretches without even transforming into her alt mode. She was built specifically for negotiating, manipulating and seducing. While her wings were certainly flight capable, their prominent feature was the mesmerizing designs that could disrupt the most stable of processors. The Quintessons took great pride in their experimental technologies of processor manipulation and were very pleased with their successful designs of Chromia's special powers. The moth mode was an aesthetic choice, chosen while the Quints were studying the diversity of organic creatures in the universe. She didn't have jets or thrusters, just simple boosters on her back that offered a means to quickly flee potentially harmful situations.

One such situation was about to be a reality for her, at least that's how it looked from an outside perspective that didn't know the prankster nature of Chromia's fellow escorts. Ramjet and Sunstorm dive bombed from above on a direct course for the petite moth. The change of pitch in their engines' roars told her what was coming, but she knew that attempting to out-fly their impressive speed was utterly futile. She settled on feigning disinterest and flitted along on her path, anticipating the inevitable bolt-rattling fly-by that would leave her tumbling helplessly in the wind gusts of their wake. Surprisingly, that didn't happen and instead the jets popped into robot mode and slowed down to hover on either side of her, grinning mischievously.

"For Primus sake!" she didn't like the look of this and transformed to face off with them. "What do you want from me? What scheming is going on in your hopped-up processors?

"No scheming at all" lied Ramjet. "We weren't discussing anything earlier, especially not how stunted your seduction skills are without the use of your wings."

"She doesn't need her wings, Ramjet, " purred Sunstorm. "She could lure any bot she wanted to."

Chromia was confused. Normally these two didn't give two scraps about her unless it was somehow advantageous to increasing their client base.

"What the spark are you two on about?" she defended.

"Nothing at all" replied Ramjet. "We absolutely don't have any bets going that you couldn't win over any bot with words alone."

His teasing stung because it was true. Her wings were clamped during business hours to prevent her from toying with clients' processors. She was expected to lure them, when her looks weren't enough, with strategic conversation. She was confident enough in her practiced mind games, but her processor was constantly nagged by the potential profits her special powers could pull in. She wished Strika and Arcee would see her point-of-view on that, but the madams valued their patrons' dignity and rejected the idea of gaining profits through sleazy tactics. That left her to rely solely on her diplomatic skills, which sadly weren't paying off as much as she'd like.

"I think she can" pandered Sunstorm. "She could charm the most prudish of all bots into 'facin. I'm willing to wager a night's wages on it."

She was thoroughly perplexed and quite irritated now. "Why do you care? What's in it for you?" she protested, wings flapping harder to lift her to their height.

"Nothing it all" denied Ramjet. "We have no desire to see that stuck-up bartender knocked down a few notches."

Chromia's mood lightened at the mention of her old flame.

"The esteemed cyber ninja, star student of Master Yoketron and hero of Detroit is nobody's fool. It would take an act of Primus to be able to con him into interfacing" added Sunstorm, dripping in insincerity.

That proposition was all Chromia needed to hear. The challenge was made and she'd be slagged if she didn't step up to it. "You say a full night's wages?" she grinned with intrigue.

Ramjet crossed his arms and stuck his nose in the air. "No, I will not bet a single hard-earned credit on this. It would give me no joy to see one of the Autobots responsible for our capture, conned and humiliated" he stated, almost convincingly.

Chromia looked over the jets with a smile. "How's this gonna work? I nail Prowl you pay up; I fail and I pay?"

"That is correct." said Sunstorm.

"So you greaseballs make out ahead either way. You get revenge from my success and get paid from my failure." She said, planting her hands on her hips.

"I don't expect you to fail. You're brilliant with your art. The poor ninja doesn't stand a chance. We'll each pay you half a night's wages, although you're deserving of double that" sang the yellow jet.

Chromia glanced back and forth between the seekers, empowered by their unspoken need of her 'persuasive skills' to take revenge on the hapless ninja. She had a suspicious hunch that their grudge went beyond politics, though. They must've made sexual advances on him, only to be denied. How amusing that would've been to witness; Prowl's mouth pinched with insult as he blatantly rejected them. She grinned wider as she reached a hand out to each of them.

"You're on." She said confidently as the jets shook her hands. The fools had no idea what they just pulled themselves into. The challenge was no longer simply luring Prowl into bed; that was easy. The real challenge was getting Prowl to admit he enjoyed it. That would show those underhanded seekers. Despite their craftiness, the seekers were young and lacked the proper life experience to keep their arrogance in check. She was fully prepared to teach them a lesson of life; a lesson chalked full of explaining in detail, as they handed over their wages, how intoxicating Prowl's technique was and how they would never get the opportunity to experience it firsthand.

***

There wasn't a specific time for said seduction to take place. The seekers understood it took some strategic scheduling on the femme's part as Prowl was locked meticulously into his own schedule of work and Circuit-su training. Prowl was only bound to Inamorato by a contract rather than a prison sentence, so he had the freedom to come and go as he pleased. This morning put him typically curled up on his favorite oversized cushion in the nook closest to the bar; reading over the news tablet and sipping on some repugnant concoction of energon which he claimed would extend his functioning due to its lack of unnatural additives. It was not uncommon for Chromia to interrupt his morning ritual once she returned from flying and the ninja learned to expect and nearly tolerate it. This morning, however, left him puzzled as she strolled past him without muttering a single snark and headed straight for the bath.

Prowl peeked up from his health drink, surprised that she didn't even glance his way. She instead hung her head and vented a long, disheartened sigh as she flung open the door leading to the bath chamber. He returned his focus back on the news tablet and continued reading. Two paragraphs later, he realized nothing he read sank in and he cursed internally for his curiosity at the femme's uncharacteristic behavior. If the seekers' had done something to upset her, he wanted to know about it. More than likely, she brought it upon herself, but for the sake of civility in his workspace, he wanted to get to the bottom of it. He rose from his cushion and discretely disappeared behind the bath door.

There was a long sloping hallway that led to the bath chamber. The room was specially designed to be apart from the bustle of the main room as it catered to exclusive group events who sought privacy from the general public. No expense was spared for the bath. It boasted high ceilings and walls molded to mimic an exotic, alien cave. It was lit with glowing pink stones and waterfalls streamed majestically from the ceiling. The madams allowed Inamorato's employees to use the bath for its practical purpose, partially as a perk for their workers, but mainly because they wanted to be certain everyone was clean and presentable while on shift.

Chromia needed no convincing to take advantage of this perk. She prided herself on her appearance; something Prowl knew too well as she was always flaunting it under his nose. If it were any other bot, he wouldn't dream of interrupting their cleaning session, but he was without a doubt the vain Chromia wouldn't mind and would most likely be pleased to have him witness such a sexually cliché ritual. He still approached her apprehensively, watching the water careen down her form, well aware that she had every right to be proud of her appearance.

He took a moment to admire how thorough she was with the sponge and how careful she was not to miss a spot. His eyes wandered from her feet, up her legs and torso, allowing his chassis to warm slightly at the memory of how it felt to touch her; back when she was simply a guilty pleasure and not the obnoxious threat she had evolved into. His gaze was halted abruptly by the sight of the clamps on her wings and he nearly felt sorry for her. Nearly. She was more than deserving of those and he never once regretted aiding in her arrest. That wasn't the issue at the moment however, and he set his grudges aside as he abruptly stepped into the water, purposely making his presence known.

She immediately shifted her glance up, genuinely startled, but immediately relaxing when she saw who it was, just as he predicted she would. What he didn't predict was how quickly she'd turn her glance away, obviously uninterested in his company.

"Are you…is everything okay?" he stammered, taking a few steps forward, feigning his pride to be unaffected.

She hesitated a moment, pausing her cleaning and refusing to look at him. "What the spark do you care?"

Prowl was shocked by her harshness. This wasn't like her at all. Even in her mellowest of moods, she never behaved…with angst. He moved closer to her, now within an arm's reach. "I…am curious" he offered truthfully. "You do not seem…yourself this morning."

"Shouldn't you be relishing that?" she snapped, back still turned to him. "Basking in your precious solitude? Grateful that the thorn in your side isn't disrupting your treasured routine?"

She never talked negatively about herself. Something was seriously wrong. "That is…why I am here." He reached out, unbothered by the water falling upon him, and gently grasped her chin in his fingers, turning her so she faced him. Prowl made it a point to see her face when talking to her. He had learned to read her cues and could usually spot when she was attempting a charade. "What is troubling you? Did something happen during your flight?"

She stared skeptically at him, her expression softening only slightly as his hand slid down to rest on her shoulder. "You really want to know, or are you just playing a role to live up to your nobility quota?" she said, getting straight to the point; classic Chromia. Prowl did have a level of nobility to live up to, but he didn't play roles; not the way she did.

"I have never seen you like this." he expressed, truthfully. "And I think I know you well enough to detect when something is wrong."

Her expression softened more. She could see and feel his sincerity. They knew each other well enough to communicate a select few emotions without words, but that was the extent of their emotional bond. Their relationship during the academy was nothing more than a wild fling; a joining of two attractive beings bored with the hum drum routine of academy life. They shared a vibrant sexual chemistry, fueled by selfish immaturity. This was before Prowl was introduced to Master Yoketron and taught the ways of the cyber ninja. He was young, defiant and reckless and Chromia was his perfect partner in crime. They skipped drills to sneak into Sentinel's office and interface on his desk. He was a nobody drill sergeant back then, but still a cocky jerk and well deserving of the pool of transfluid they would purposely leave in plain sight.

They had fun together, but that was all. Sexual adventures and practical jokes were the basis of their relationship. They never whispered sweet nothings, never considered a future together and certainly never sparkbonded. Prowl was too involved in himself and she was too obsessed with Megatron. They used each other for sheer pleasure; no shame, no regrets and no expectations. It ended abruptly when Prowl dropped out of the academy and sought a carefree life in the bustle of downtown Iacon. (but that's a story for another time)

She looked deeply into his optic visor. "How much do you really know me, Prowl?"

He paused a moment, irritated to have his question answered with a question. This was going nowhere. All her defenses were up and she was already attempting mind games on him. He was about to turn and leave, but his eyes wandered to her wings. Perhaps he'd try a different approach. He reached his hand out to touch the clamps and examine them curiously. "Do these hurt?" He purposely but subtly let his hand brush against her wing. The touch caused her to relax a bit, just as he hoped it would.

"I've had worse" she replied dryly. "Working for the Quints wasn't always the most...comfortable of jobs.

This confession perked Prowl's curiosity. He knew of her history with the Quints but she never spoke so frankly about the negative aspects of it. He'd always assumed the arena life was tough but that she was grateful for the life experience she gained from it. The Quints trained her to be streetwise, untrusting and very manipulative; three traits he thoroughly envied once choosing a life in the city.

"What do you mean by that?" he asked sternly.

Her head dropped and he felt her body go partially limp. She walked past him and sat down on the nearest glowing rock, her arms wrapped tightly around her mid-section. Prowl watched her curiously, but skepticism crept into his processor. This was too much. She was up to something. Why would she all of a sudden be haunted this severely by her past. Why hadn't he ever see her behave this way in their academy days when her arena life was fresher in her memory?

"I thought you enjoyed your arena life." he pressed.

"Is that the story I told you?" she mumbled, head still hung.

The ninja kept his distance, unconvinced. "Then it was a lie?" His voice was sharp. "I should have known. Speaking truthfully is not in your programming."

She peered up with a spiteful glare. "Then why did you ask?" her optics glowed fiercely. "Why are you even in here? Did you simply come here to kick me while I'm down?"

"No, but you cannot blame me for harboring doubt in your sincerity." he reasoned.

"I don't recall inviting you in here to interrogate me. In fact, interrupting a co-worker's bath time may not bode well with the madams." she threatened. Her voice was harsh and lower than normal. "It might just be taken as inappropriate behavior on your part!"

"That is not why I came in here!" he defended, crossing his arms.

"Then what the spark are you doing in here?" her optics blazed. "Believe it or not, I need my solitude too! Is a little privacy too much to ask for?"

"That is quite the hypocritical request coming from you" he argued. "How many times have you humiliated me in front the other staff by dredging up my past--"

"Do I ever interrupt your private time?" she countered. "Name one time I have even breathed wrong near your precious Organic Room while you were meditating."

Prowl was without a retort. She was right. Despite her constant assault on him in the brothel's shared spaced, she never once interrupted his meditation. He softened his tone and turned away. "Very well, I will leave you alone." He began walking away. "It was my mistake to assume you needed someone to talk to."

"What exactly did you want to hear, Prowl?" she pushed. "What do you care of my past?"

He stopped, glancing back over his shoulder. "As I stated, I was merely curious at your change of behavior."

"What does that mean?" she questioned sharply. "Do you wish to analyze me like some fraggin' organic plant life?" She shook her head then lowered it again. "I know you don't give a scrap, but is too much to ask that you don't insult me by pretending to?"

"You misinterpret my intentions." he offered softly. "But I will leave you if that is what you wish." He turned away and started for the exit, regretting his decision to come in the first place.

She kept her focus down, listening to his sloshing footsteps. It wasn't until he was out of the pool that she spoke softly. "They were horrible."

Prowl stopped again, turning his full body to face her. "What did you say?" He wasn't sure if heard her correctly and questioned if she was referring to him.

She pulled her head back up to meet his curious gaze. Her expression was so desperate he didn't recognize her anymore. "The Quintessons...they were horrible, disgusting beings" she growled. "The perverts of the universe...I was nothing but a..." her head dropped again "a possession. An instrument to do whatever they pleased with…whenever it suited them."

The ninja felt his circuits twist in repulsion. "You don't mean…?" he gasped.

She slumped in silence for a moment before speaking again. "Why do think I'm so good at my current job, Prowl?" she sighed in confession. "How I'm able to disconnect interfacing from emotion?"

He stepped back into the pool and approached her slowly. She didn't look up at him until he stood directly over her. "Until now, I always believed what you told me...that you weren't programmed to feel the way an Autobot does...Another lie?" he wondered.

She responded with a meek nod. He dropped to one knee and met her optics at her level, peering deeply into them. "Have you internalized this for your entire functioning?" he asked in his logical tone. She gave him another slight nod. "That was unwise of you." he continued. "Surely there was someone you could have talked to during your service in the Elite Guard. An Autobot you were close to?"

She stared blankly at him.

"No one?" he questioned with disbelief.

She shifted her body to face him then leaned into him, resting her head on his shoulder. Prowl tensed up, leery of her intentions. He questioned what she had to gain by winning his consolation and didn't put it past her to use a tragic life experience as a tool to win his affections.

"No one until now." she sighed as she pulled his hands to wrap around her waist. She slid her hands around his neck and Prowl was about to pull away, but he stopped himself. There was a blatant innocence in the embrace. Her touch screamed of anguish. Even the most gifted conartist couldn't fake a physical communication such as this. He could sense how little she received genuine affection and wondered if she ever experienced intimacy that didn't involve interfacing.

His nobility took over and he pulled her against him and holding her tight. He occasionally caressed her back as the moment bled into a cycle and then another. She didn't make a sound and gradually buried her face deeper into his neck, obviously responding positively to his unassuming sympathy. Finally she sighed with a light hum and lifted her head to meet his optics, a tiny smile curling up one side of her mouth. She leaned into to kiss him and he allowed their lips to brush, but quickly turned his head away.

"I don't expect you to" Prowl explained truthfully "…interface with me. I was simply offering my condol—

"I know Prowl ", she assured, cutting him off. "But I want this...Not from someone who has an itch to scratch, or a point to make, or a quota to fill...I want this from you...because you care."

"I don't see how that will help the issue." he argued. "It will only complicate matters."

"I assure you it won't." she pleaded. "I can't remember the last time I interfaced when money or ulterior motives weren't involved." He shook his head in protest, but she halted its motion between her hands. "Please, Prowl" she whispered desperately. "I need this."

He continued to hold tightly to her waist and didn't pull away from her hands on his face, but made it a point to look upon her earnestly. "Chromia, I will not lie to you. If I agree to this, it will be out of pity, not love."

She slipped a giggle. "Who said anything about love?" She leaned closer to his face and ran her hand along his cheek, thumb brushing the edge of his tiny mouth. "Pity is born from a spark that truly cares…" her other hand drifted to rest upon his chest "and that is all I ask of you." She didn't wait for his response and pushed back into a kiss.

Prowl's first instinct was to pull away but something stopped him; a feeling in his spark very unexpected. It was raw, primal and pure...feeding off his instincts. Circuit-su taught him to respect his instincts, and that is the reason he didn't fight them. His chassis warmed and his spark swelled. He pushed back into the kiss and allowed her glossa to explore his. Their arms slithered around each other, chests pressed flush, black metal scraping on white.

Prowl gently lifted her off the rock and laid her into the shallow water. He gracefully eased down upon her, never once breaking their devouring kiss. Despite her past treachery to him and the grudge it built on his spark, he couldn't deny how good she felt. The sexual bond frustrated him on many occasions because he could not explain it. Their personalities differed like the factions they swore allegiance to, but their sparks didn't seem to care and fell into harmonic throbbing at being in close proximity again.

She was strangely passionate, absorbed in the kiss, hands clutching the sides of his face again. She normally had her fingers viciously buried in his vital circuitry by now. She would always rush it, retracting her interface panel in the first couple cycles, but not this time. His spiked pressed against his panel, but he did not want to retract his first; not after learning her…history. He pulled from the kiss but only by centimeters, looking over her expression to reassure that he was doing the right thing. Her face beamed of longing, of comfort…of trust. He smiled in relief and fell back into the kiss, glossa penetrating her lips.

She moaned into him, sending vibrations into his throat then down his chassis to dance with the thrumming of his spark. Pity sex or not, this was hot and he was due for a dignified overload after the state Lockdown left him a couple deca-cycles past. His chassis warmed with electrified currents, sparked by the friction of her interface panel grinding against his. She still hadn't retracted it but she was thrusting as if he was already inside of her. He moaned smoothly, knowing the effect his voice had on her, and pressed harder against her, thrusting back in time with her rhythm.

He continued to moan softly, using his fluid vocals to trigger various sighs and squeaks from her. He was undeniably impressed that she hadn't retracted her panel yet and decided to pull out the big guns. He broke their kiss and trailed his lips down to her audio receptor. "Are you comfortable?" he purred with a light smirk. It was his turn to tease and he knew he could do it within the boundaries of respect.

Her response was the retraction of her interface panel and a desperate clawing at his back. Exactly the reaction he was hoping for. He pulled her up onto his lap and wrapped her legs around his waist while he assumed his signature lotus pose. He was certainly capable of tantric techniques but hesitant to subject her to that so soon after the Shockwave incident. She trailed up his neck onto his jawline, nipping at chin before ending the journey with a biting of his lower lip and lusting growl. He captured her upper lip, afraid to bite as he didn't know how she would react to pain in her frail state. Well, her previously frail state. She was behaving now very much like the Chromia he knew, so he retracted his panel and gently pushed his aching length into her longing valve.

"Oh Prowl" she praised as she greeted his spike with a rush of lubricant and luscious vacillation in her valve. These reactions were autonomous in most bots but somehow, hers always felt planned and executed with sinister intentions. He craved more. He wanted to curse her for how easily she could bring out the defiant juvenile in him, considering how many centuries of Circuit-su it took to tame that side of him. He thrust into her, smooth and fluidly, just like his voice which he added to the mix with growls and moans.

She consumed his mouth as if trying to taste his voice, her glossa probing deep. He smiled against her parted lips, pleased that his simple nonsensical vocalizations could put her on the edge of overload. He could feel her try to fight it, and knew the most basic of pillow talk would send her over the edge. He lingered with this power for several moments, squeezing her hips as he guided her along his spike, which was dangerously close to overload as well. He didn't want to overload first, purely out of the respect she asked from him. He didn't doubt that he behaved like a horny jerk on multiple occasions during their academy days and wondered if that may have deepened her scar of moral depravity. If that were the case, there wasn't anything he could do about it now besides redeem himself as a mature and noble…consort?...friend? Frag it. He'd sort the details out later. Right now, she was due for an overload before those blasted seekers walked in on them, or worse yet, Strika found them.

He unhinged their lips just enough to mutter his next thought. "Is there something in particular I can--" He didn't need to finish. Her overload came on strong and she cried out in ecstasy, burying her fingers into his back panels; digging at the circuits as she bucked and arched and finally sunk her full weight against his responsive chassis. Her valve engulfed his spike with hot taunting fluid and he couldn't contain his own overload any longer, especially not while she was toying with the sensitive nodes on his back. He clutched her hips tightly as he erupted with an unintended holler and intense rush of transfluid that caused her limp body to twitch involuntarily.

He collapsed onto her, their mix of transfluid seeping out along their inner thighs and dripping into the water. He rested his forehead to hers the spoke lightly. "I'll see to it that Lugnut cleans this up."

She laughed weakly, euphorically; soaking up the intimacy and basking in the lingering tingles his retracting spike was creating in her valve. She trailed her fingertips down his back, admiring every sleek curve and perfect seam. "Did you…enjoy this?" She inquired sweetly, her optics fluttering at how close his visor was to them.

He wrapped his arms around her and rolled onto his back, gently sliding his spike out and closing his interface panel. She slid to the natural groove between his chest and arm, propping her chin on his chest and resting her hand on his narrow waist.

"This was quite unexpected" he replied dryly, then immediately softened his vocals "but I enjoyed it very much." Before he could inquire to her enjoyment, she was already pushing up off him. She kneeled down to splash some water against her valve and thighs, cleaning off the transfluid and then snapping her panel shut. She rose to her feet, turning away from him.

"What's this?" he pondered.

"I got what I came for" she replied flatly, her back still turned to him as she strolled toward the door.

Prowl was on his feet in an instant. "What does that mean?" He pursued her, face awash in confusion. "Did I do something wrong?"

She reached the door and finally turned to face him with her classic, shitty grin. "No, Prowl. You did everything just right."

Chromia entered the main room, still grinning, and immediately caught the attention of the seekers who were perched at the bar, sipping on some energon.

"We aren't at all waiting to use the bath" complained Ramjet.

"I thank you for testing the effectiveness of the bath before us—", grumbled Sunstorm who was cut off by Prowl's emergence through the bath's door. The ninja had forgotten to wash the transfluid from his thighs and the seekers instantly noticed it.

She aimed for the bar, holding her arms out and spinning once with exhibitionism. "Glowing" she bragged.

"Chromia!" beckoned the ninja, now frustrated and still ignorant to the evidence on his chassis. "Would you please explain yourself?"

She ignored Prowl and approached the seekers victoriously, slapping her hand palm-up onto the bar. "Pay up, jerks!" she announced.

Ramjet eyeballed her skeptically then switched focus onto Prowl who stood utterly confused and growing more angry by the second. "He looks like he had a great time, just as you said he wouldn't."

"What?" Prowl barked. "Chromia, what is he talking about? What just happened back there?"

Chromia's optics widened as she shushes Prowl and gestures to the office. Her eyes wandered down to his thighs and, with a smirk, she tossed him his signature towel.

"How did you do it?" swooned Sunstorm to the femme. "I simply must know." The yellow jet pulled a handful of tokens from his cockpit and placed them in Chromia's grasping hand.

"As if I'm going to tell" teased the femme. "But I assure you, he enjoyed it."

Prowl quickly cued into what was happening. "This was a bet?" he raged with insult.

"I don't need proof to believe you" challenged Ramjet.

Chromia had anticipated their doubt and tapped her comm a couple times. Prowl's voice emerged, but not from the ninja himself. Instead he spoke through her comm, repeating what he said in confidentiality to her just moments ago. // _This was quite unexpected --but I enjoyed it very much_//

"Chromia!" shouted the ninja.

She ignored him and pranced up the steps, clutching her precious winnings but quickly losing her smirk. Prowl raced after her, fists clenched and mouth pinched in disgust.

"Have you no decency?" ordered Prowl as he followed her to the balcony. She stopped before entering the Exotic Room and decided it only fair to give his protests her undivided attention. Prowl continued, indifferent to his volume and how he could be clearly heard through the office's closed door. "I knew you underhanded, but this, Chromia, this is below even you!"

Strika burst out from the office. "Vhat iz going on?" Prowl ignored the madam and continued his rant, now pinning Chromia to the door simply by his proximity.

"Was everything you confessed to me a lie? Are you truly so morally vacant as to make up a story like that just to win a bet?" Prowl bored his optics into hers, clearly successful in his intent to intimidate her.

The femme cowered and glanced back and forth between him and Strika, who was approaching quickly and obviously not pleased by the apparent hostilities between her staff members.

"M-maybe!" stammered Chromia as she disappeared into the Exotic Room and locked the door behind her.

Strika's shadow engulfed the ninja and she stared down upon him, furrowing her brow at the stains on his thighs. "Vhat did she do to you zis time!? Haff you interfazed!?"

Prowl regained his composure, finally wiping the stains from his body. He had no desire to pull his boss into this unprofessional and humiliating mess. "Of course not. She spilled her drink on me and refused to apologize." He turned away and disappeared into the Organic Room, door slamming behind him.

Strika shook her head, confused then leaned over the railing to unleash on the seekers. "I zmell jet fyu-el! Vhy you two not take bazz yet!?

The seekers simply smiled at each other then casually sauntered toward the bath chamber door.

***

Prowl sat in his lotus pose upon the imported grass of the Organic Room. He hummed lightly and appeared completely at peace, regardless of the events that took place only cycles ago. His hands ran lightly across the alien flowers around him. There were many colors and varieties, all of which he knew intimately. He plucked the darkest colored flower, one so deep blue it was almost black. He pinched one of its petals then brought his fingers to optic level, examining with curiosity the deep stains the plant's pigment left on his light-colored fingertips. A rare, devious smirk spread across his dark face.


	7. High

_A/N Ok so we've got some more smexin' goodness in here! This story refers to the taking of drugs so it is to be taken lightly, no flames or harsh comments please... or the ninjas will find you.... _

_I hope you enjoy! It was fun to write._

**High - By: Optimus Bob**

Oilslick eyed the neon sign with bemusement as he approached the door. He recognised the 'copter as Blackout and the other a large bouncer was familiar. He searched his cortex for a name. Ah yes Lugnut. Oilslick made it a point to remember the names of mechs that he encountered or was expecting to encounter. It was much easier in his line of work to be able to charm 'bots to your way of thinking if you hadn't ruffled any feathers.

He put on his most delectable smile and approached the entrance. "Lugnut, Blackout what a pleasure it is to see you both again. I trust you're both doing well?"

"Uhh... do we know you?" Lugnut frowned in confusion. Oilslick smiled even wider.

"Of course, I know you remember me Blackout!" His slick vocals rolled off his glossa with practised ease as he flung his lithe arm over Blackout's shoulder. "Do you not remember me? Oh I am hurt." He widened his red optics innocently and glanced up at Lugnut. "You must remember me Lugnut, fighting in that battle with Megatron?"

"I remember all battles that I have fought in alongside Almighty Megatron.!" Lugnut retorted, still unsure as to who this mech claimed to be but not wanting to appear foolish if he proved to be someone of importance.

"There you go then! And I must say I have seen you fight in the arena." He nudged the large 'con lightly. "Very impressive." He preened, watching as Lugnut swelled a little at the praise. "Well I have business to attend to inside gentlemechs so if you don't mind." He flicked something smoothly into each of their hands as he glided past them. "Have a little something on me."

"We're not allowed to accept gifts from patrons when we're working." Blackout stated, taking to his role with pride. "Especially not whatever this is." He squinted at the little transparent pouch, filled with a bright pink liquid.

"It's only a pick me up, I imagine you'll be working long hours?"

"Yes but..."

"Well good, you're welcome. Now if you'll excuse me." Oilslick gave them a sly wink as he ducked inside the doors to Kaon's newest and most popular attraction.

He was pleasantly surprised upon entering Inamorato. The ethereal blue lighting cast an eerie glow onto the swishing veils and large purple and black cushions. The soft hue of lighting changed gradually to a warmer colour, it reminded Oilslick of a sunset reflected in a lake, he'd seen upon a brief visit to Earth gathering supplies.

Oilslick was a chemist, a scientist, a mech who appreciated beauty in most of its forms. Beauty for him was usually down to symmetry and mathematical precision, the lighting changed ever cycle, not enough to be distinctly noticeable but just enough to lull a mech into a pleasantly relaxed state. Oilslick was impressed. His optics caught a flash of pink. He let out a purr and a wide grin graced his features. He was also a mech to make the most of beauty when it presented itself to him.

He walked smoothly over to the quaint little bar, catching sight of that slight, delicately pink chassis. "You have got to be Arcee."

The pink femme stood from her crouched position and smiled at him. "The very same and you are?"

"The name's Oilslick." He lifted her hand gracefully to his lips pursing them gently. "I hear this lovely establishment is your pride and joy?"

"Mine and Strika's yes, we're very proud of what we've accomplished here."

"You should be, I've heard good things and I only hear that which is worth listening to."

"Is that so?" Arcee's mouth quirked in amusement. "So what will your pleasure be this evening?"

"Oh I am just here for the fine cocktails my dear."

"Are you sure, we provide for varied and eclectic tastes." She smirked as Oilslick raised her hand to his lips once more.

"Well a certain femme has caught my optic but I have a feeling she is a little out of my price range." He winked at Arcee who found his attempt at charm both amusing and nauseating.

"Hmmm... the bartender will be back shortly, please enjoy our hospitality. I recommend..." She draped herself over his shoulders seductively while pointing at the cocktail list. "A touch of pink. It's well within your price range and the only touch of pink you'll get this evening." She murmured into his audio softly before slinking off to the office, smiling at her guests as she passed them.

Oilslick watched her go, taking in every inch of her curvy frame. "Damn if I wasn't working."

"She would still let you down easy."

He twisted in the direction of the smooth voice and his jaw fell slack. "Well now, you are a surprise."

"I aim to please." Prowl responded dryly as he wiped down the bar. "Apparently." He muttered as he caught Oilslick watching him closely. "Would you like a drink?"

"Surprise me hot bot, make me a cocktail, sky's your limit." He grinned as he pressed credits against the bar. "Get one for yourself while you're at it."

Prowl glanced over his shoulder at the credits. "I'm not permitted high grade while I'm working nor do I make a personal habit of drinking it."

"Please, I insist and if I'm not mistaken the whole concept of this place is for companionship no?"

Prowl didn't respond as he busied himself with the cocktail, his back to Oilslick who was drinking in the sight of his black and gold curve and the delicious movements he made as he mixed the drink for him. Oh yes everything about this place was beautiful.

"I thought so." He continued in light of Prowl's lack of response. "Nobody is saying it has to be high grade."

Prowl turned to face him gracefully pouring the now cloudy deep violet liquid into a tall stemmed crystal glass, his expression unreadable as he placed it in front of Oilslick. Oilslick held his optic as he waited patiently for Prowl to pour himself a drink before taking his own, a sickeningly sweet smile on his face.

Prowl let out a faint sigh of defeat and placed a small cube on the bar. Pouring in his own personal concoction he raised his cube politely. "If you insist."

Oilslick smirked and drank, his optics resting on the ninjabot as he sipped his own drink. "Mmmm." He keened softly. "This is delightful. Thank you for the drink and the company Prowl."

"How did you...?"

He moved away from the bar before Prowl could finish, without a second glance finding a secluded, comfortable spot along the wall. He sank into one of the large cushions with a contented sigh; drink in hand, his precious case in the other.

His deep red optics took in every inch of the room, noting every guest who walked through the door. He sat back and waited for the right mech, the right moment and a certain guest he was expecting.

His optics glinted as a proud blue Autobot sauntered through the door, pausing to make his unimpressive presence known before heading cockily over to the bar, making a bee line for the ninja. Oilslick smirked wickedly. "Business is looking up."

****

Meanwhile from the top of the balcony came an audio shattering shriek. The door to Chromia's favourite room slammed open. Oilslick's optics snapped up at the racket as the femme screamed loudly.

"PROWL!!!"

"Vhat iz going on!" Strika bellowed, emerging from the office. Everyone was now staring at the hysterical femme.

"Look what he did! Look what he's done to me! I'm ruined! It won't wash off!!"

Strika heaved a heavy sigh her optics darting over to Prowl who shrugged. "I have been here the entire time."

Chromia practically flew down the stairs and screeched at Prowl like a banshee making sure to pick up Sentinel's freshly poured drink and throw it at him, the pink energon splashing over his dark frame. She ran sobbing towards the baths at the back, weaving through startled customers, her usual bright, light purple and white coloured chassis smeared with large blotches of deep purple which seemed to be embedded into her metallic framework as if it had been rubbed in.

"Hang on Chromia that room is occupied!" Arcee yelled after her.

"I suppose vhe should help?"

The two femmes ran after her as her continued hysterics filtered into the main room, the screaming now joined by the shrieks from the bath house's inhabitants.

"Prowl be a dear and keep an eye on things." Arcee shouted back over her shoulder. Prowl merely nodded as he wiped the spilt energon from his chassis.

The ever so slight smirk from the ninjabot was not lost on Oilslick. The devious mech clearly had something to do with the drama. This peeked Oilslick's interest, he was always on the lookout for mechs who could prove useful to him and in his world every mech had a price. Even prudish, arrogant Autobots. All he had to do was wait for his guest to arrive and then he could get started on some proper mischief.

****

Sentinel planted himself down with a huff of a sigh, mumbling about stuck up ninja bots as he slurped his high grade. Oilslick listened carefully, to his grumblings. It seemed that the mech had been turned down outright by Prowl. This amused Oilslick, why was Sentinel so interested in Prowl anyway? He was momentarily distracted as Arcee and Strika exited the bath house with Chromia who now was a funny shade of violet. Well at least it was even. She still had to work; she shot daggers at Prowl with her optics as he tended his bar, ignoring her completely. Oilslick watched as Sentinel approached Arcee clearly with some kind of proposition in mind. Tuning in his highly focused audios he caught traces of their conversation.

"That is a high price Sentinel, are you sure you want to pay that for him?" Arcee questioned lightly.

"Well I figure it as you're the boss; this is a lot of credit so he'd be hard pressed to refuse." Sentinel smirked as Arcee considered his proposal.

"Ok I can ask him, his contract allows him to refuse you though, no matter the attractive payment you're offering I can't force him."

"You can persuade him." Sentinel replied defiantly, not willing to take no for an answer.

Oilslick was now most definitely intrigued. Why did the acting Magnus want one night with Prowl so much? He narrowed his optics as Arcee had a quiet word with Prowl. The ninjabot scowled over at Sentinel and shook his head vehemently to his boss. Before turning back to his bar signalling the end of the conversation. Arcee merely shrugged as she approached Sentinel.

"I tried darlin'. We have plenty of others to choose from if you're interested?"

"No. Forget it. Where does he get off rejecting me!?"

Arcee looked bemused, also confused by Sentinel's sudden interest in a 'bot she thought he hated. "Let it go love. Come find me if you change your mind about the offer." She smiled sweetly before disappearing once more.

Sentinel slumped in the closest seat gulping his high grade down in annoyance, glaring in the direction of the bar.

"What I want to know is what a classy mech such as yourself would want with a 'bot that is obviously below your standards?" Oilslick spoke smoothly, startling Sentinel who hadn't realised he'd sat at his table.

"What's it to you?" He snapped sharply.

Oilslick smiled and laid on the charm. "I'm merely curious; you're clearly an upstanding member of society."

"You got that right." Sentinel mumbled quietly, milking the praise clearly a little put out by the rejection.

"Here let me buy you a drink and you can tell me all about it." Oilslick moved over to the bar without waiting for a reply and returned with two cubes of high grade, handing one to Sentinel he gestured to the seat beside his own. Sentinel accepted reluctantly and took another large mouthful of high grade.

It didn't take long for the large 'bot to open up about his previous albeit overcharged advances towards Prowl and how Lockdown had humiliated him in front of everyone, him the acting Magnus and now Sentinel had decided to get one over on the bounty hunter. He'd faked a message to the bounty hunter, pretending it was Prowl who had contacted him and asked him to come back to Inamorato. Sentinel had planned on seducing Prowl by any means (even if it meant paying) and making sure that Lockdown knew about it and with any luck caught him in the act and was unable to do anything about it.

Oilslick smirked, as he listened. Sentinel got more fed up as he realised his plan wasn't going as he wanted. Prowl was simply too stubborn and too prudish without the aid of high grade.

"What if I told you, that you could still get what you wanted and more?" His optics met Sentinel's as the 'bot stared at him.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying that I have a means to an end." He patted his case sitting on the table. "For the right price."

Sentinel's optics widened in realisation, before a sly grin spread across his mouth. "Name it."

"Well I obviously wish for credit in advance and a final payment when you're finished. I will forgo the final payment however if you get me something."

Sentinel frowned he wasn't about to be duped into doing something in which he could be caught. "What?"

"There is talk of a special mushroom, in the organic room here, myself and a friend were going to try and get it this evening. Now I am led to believe that Prowl himself tends this room so if you were to seduce him all you would have to do is wait until he fell into recharge, of course I have no doubt that you will be able to wear him out, then grab it and leave. Simple."

"Hmmm well your price is a lot more reasonable than what I would be paying for him outright." He rubbed his large chin. "Count me in."

"Excellent."

"Count me in too."

Both mech jumped at the soft purr of Chromia's vocals as she slipped into a seat beside Oilslick. "I want that ninja brought down a peg for what he's done to me. I can pay."

Oilslick eyed them both carefully. "Hmmm, so you wish to humiliate him and you Sentinel wish to seduce him?"

"Sounds about right." Chromia responded her optics still locked suspiciously on Sentinel.

"I may have just the thing." He smiled at them both as he opened his case slightly and revealed a small pouch of blue liquid. "Payment now please, then you can get to work."

****

Oilslick handed Sentinel a dropper with the transparent blue liquid. He played with the credits in his fingers as he watched both 'bots work surprisingly well together. Chromia distracted Prowl with a fake apology for her outburst and while his back was turned Sentinel slipped in the blue liquid into Prowl's drink still resting on the bar. Sentinel remained at the bar when Prowl returned, waving his energon cube for another drink.

Chromia glided back to her trademark spot dancing around the pole. Her optics watched Prowl closely as he finished his drink. Now all they had to do was wait.

Luckily with Prowl's body not being used to most kinds of intoxication recently, they did not have to wait long. Chromia almost laughed out loud as Prowl began dropping glasses onto customers as he served them drinks. After the fourth time she was almost laughing at loud at the now very flushed expression on Prowl's face.

Sentinel smirked at him. "Getting tired Prowl?"

"I... I'm fine. Just time for my break." He sat heavily onto a stool next to Sentinel, before he stumbled. His head was swimming and his body was filling up with strange yet pleasant tingling warmth that radiated outwards. Prowl blinked behind his visor as he tried to focus, something was wrong. His drink someone must have put something in his drink. He turned, too quickly as he reached for his cube in an attempt to analyse it and slipped off his stool. He found himself in Sentinel's arms, the large blue mech smiling down on him warmly.

Prowl suddenly felt overcome with an overwhelming urge to kiss the mech who had caught him. He smirked as he crawled his way back up the chassis a tiny smile forming on his lips.

Sentinel repressed a chuckle as Prowl began running his fingers over his frame delicately, the drug which was a potent aphrodisiac according to Oilslick, was taking effect. He straightened in his arms his blue visor slightly dimmer than before. "I was wondering Sentinel, how much were you willing to pay for me this evening?"

"Oh well... umm... I...wasn't going to put a definite price on it, was a generous amount let me assure you."

"Really?"

Sentinel nodded caught off guard by the ninjabot's ministrations along his frame as he circled him slowly. He yelped in surprise as Prowl leapt onto his back, dipping his head into his neck, he licked all the way up from his collar fairing to his audio sensors, his liquid vocals sending shudders down his back strut.

"How would you like me...?" Prowl kissed his cheek lightly. "For free?"

Sentinel's optics widened, this was working better than he thought, in his growing arousal he almost forgot the reason he was doing it, Lockdown. He pried Prowl from his frame and led him over to his seat. "Not just yet, let's just spend some time together first." He fought the urge to roll his optics and snigger.

Prowl raised an orbital ridge at him and laughed. He whipped off the satin apron and flicked it into Sentinel's face before pushing himself up to perch on the bar, he lifted his legs and sprawled seductively along the bar. Resting his head in his hand as he propped himself up on his elbow, he traced a line down Sentinel's chest with his finger. "I'd rather not wait." He purred deeply.

Sentinel's mouth fell open at the display, ignoring the involuntary growl from his engine as Prowl pulled him towards him.

Chromia was bent double on the podium in laughter as she watched the erotic display from the normally so straight laced Prowl. This was better than she could have imagined. Her optics darted to the door as it swung open. Her grin widened as she leapt from her podium and headed for the office. Discreetly she turned the lock on the door with a faint click. Nobody was going to spoil this night.

****

Lockdown spotted Oilslick sitting by himself chuckling. He headed over ignoring the shocked looks from the other guests as they watched the bar intently.

"I suppose that's your handy work with the two sleeping beauties outside?" He rumbled in amusement. Oilslick nodded amidst his laughter.

"Don't often get to see you laughing this hard. Who died?"

Oilslick smiled up at him patting the seat beside him. "See for yourself." Lockdown sat and looked in the direction Oilslick was pointing. His jaw dropped open as his optics were greeted by the sight of Prowl pleasuring both himself and a stunned Sentinel while lying sprawled on the bar counter.

"This is all for you, you know." Oilslick continued chuckling.

"What are you talkin' about? I only agreed to come back here because that slagger over there contacted me and said he wanted to make amends." He growled angrily unable to take his optics off the writhing ninja bot who was now clawing at Sentinel's blue frame and letting out delicious moans of arousal that caused Lockdown's sensor net to tingle.

"Prowl didn't contact you my friend, he works here. Sentinel did, this is all his work, with a little help from yours truly of course."

"You didn't?"

"I did."

"Why?"

"Why do you think? And they agreed to get me that item that I originally came here for. You know the one I was going to give you a cut of if you helped me?" Oilslick met Lockdown's glare with a smirk. "Guess I won't be needing your help after all."

"Frag this! You will give me a cut, we will get the item, but first I have some unfinished business to attend to."

Lockdown strode over to the bar where Sentinel was now locked in a passionate kiss with Prowl. With a snarl he snaked his hook around Sentinel's waist and sent him flying backwards onto his aft.

"What the slag?! Lockdown!"

"What did I tell you about laying your hands on him?"

Sentinel smirked smugly. "Well if you must know he laid his hands on me first and I didn't even need to pay."

"Oh no, so how much of the drug did you give him?"

"I... ah... don't know what you're talking about." He stammered.

Lockdown's optics narrowed dangerously. "Sure you don't kid." He turned to Prowl who was no longer where he left him. He spun round as he heard that rich voice laughing. His optics fell on the podium where Chromia was snaking her slender frame around Prowl's as they danced erotically with each other around the metal pole.

Cheers and hollers were coming strong from the guests now as the two dancers pawed each other seductively, caught up in the music, which Chromia had arranged especially. Lockdown's jaw fell slack as he watched Prowl dance and gyrate in time to the music, the two 'bots were practically giving each other a lap dance for the crowd. He felt his systems heat up involuntarily at the alluring sight of Prowl leaning over Chromia's slight frame clutching at her waist as he kissed her neck and chest, she was bent elegantly her hands gripping the pole as Prowl chuckled lightly. His hands slipped over hers when he pressed against her kissing her deeply.

He smiled at her as he pulled away leaping down from the podium leaving her frustrated. She tried to move but found her hands tied to the pole with a red satin cloth. Prowl's apron. She swore loudly as the guests whistled and cheered, unable to free herself.

Lockdown went to grab hold of Prowl before he made a beeline for the other guests. Sentinel stood in his way. "You can't just come in here and claim him bounty hunter."

Lockdown noticed Oilslick slip off unnoticed out of the corner of his vision. This whole charade was his fault. "Prowl you've been drugged, you don't actually want to 'face with Sentinel."

Prowl looked up at him, his slender arms draped around Sentinel's neck from behind. A tiny smirk tugged at his mouth. Grabbing Sentinel he pulled him into a fierce kiss that left Sentinel gasping as he pulled away. The black and gold mech grabbed Sentinel's hand and glided past Lockdown never taking his narrow optics off him as he led Sentinel to the Organic room. Lockdown caught Sentinel's wrist as he was tugged past him.

"This is not over, between you and me." He growled menacingly. Sentinel leered at him victoriously.

"No, it's not between me and Prowl either, don't worry I'll make sure he has a lot more fun than he had with you." He let out a haughty laugh that was cut off by the door slamming shut behind them.

The room was slowly degenerating into chaos as overcharged mechs started taking over. Lockdown sighed; he quite liked this place and did not want to see it go to the pits. Chromia was shrieking in anger, kicking her legs out at the pawing hands of over eager guests. He took a deep intake and unlocked the rattling office door.

"Lockdown! What the frag have you done to my bar!?" Arcee shrilled angrily as Strika grabbed the bounty hunter by his collar fairing.

"And vhere iz Prowl!?"

"Hey, hey! I'm the good guy here, you really should be more careful about who you let in this place." He struggled in Strika's surprisingly strong grip. "And what's this I hear about Prowl working here?"

****

Oilslick ducked behind the heavy red velvet drapes, to avoid being seen. The drapes encircled the glowing blue/green mushroom he was after. He cursed as the leaves beneath his feet rustled softly; glancing around the drapes he was greeted by a very aroused Sentinel getting fondled by Prowl who was undoubtedly riding on the euphoria of his special concoction.

Oilslick couldn't help but grin at his own handiwork as the ninja floored the blue 'bot surprisingly fast before leaping on his frame eagerly. Sentinel yelped as Prowl bit into the cabling exposed at his neck, licking away the resulting energon he purred deeply, pulling Sentinel into an arousing kiss. Oilslick couldn't help but watch, he was a mech who appreciated beauty after all, feeling the heat of his own arousal prickle his senses as Prowl unsheathed Sentinel's hard spike.

Sentinel moaned loudly 'Primus he's so tight.' He thought as Prowl lowered himself slowly over his lubricated spike. Prowl began to ride him slowly building up an achingly slow rhythm. Sentinel was not a patient 'bot and while he was both pleased his plan worked and aroused at the sensual touches from Prowl, he was a mech who liked to be in control. He grabbed hold of Prowl's tiny waist flipping him onto his back. The black and gold mech arched into him, as Sentinel's weight pushed him deeper inside the hot, clenching valve.

Oilslick's mouth had dropped open with arousal, his glossa licking his lips with want as Sentinel topped Prowl and began driving into him deeply. The sounds coming from the ninjabot were erotic and sensual. They increased in volume as Sentinel increased his pace, their gasping and moaning caused Oilslick to tremble, his hands drifting to his own spike fingers stroking it absently as he watched Prowl clutch at the leaves lining the floor, crushing them with his fists as he overloaded.

Sentinel followed soon after, letting out a groan of release as his transfluid emptied into Prowl's valve, already wet from his own fluids. Pulling away he grinned at the satiated 'bot. "Well it's been fun." He made to get up. Prowl moved fast and Sentinel found his wrists locked together with stasis cuffs.

"What the...?" His optics were wide as Prowl stood over him and gently pushed him onto his back. He strained to see what Prowl was doing behind the red drapes. He stared as the black and gold mech approached, with a strange looking mushroom in his hands. "What do you want me to do with that?!"

"I want you to lick it." Prowl purred dropping down to straddle Sentinel's waist. "No, I'm not licking no disgusting organic plant!" He couldn't even squirm as Prowl brought it closer to his mouth. "No, you can't make me!" Prowl chuckled darkly as he ran his glossa over the mushroom's head, Sentinel watched agape as he lowered down, unable to stop him he surrendered to the searing kiss as Prowl's glossa toyed with his own. The taste was sweet and delicate, he moaned into Prowl's mouth.

A strange euphoric sensation came over him and he felt his spike seeping lubricant as intense arousal hit him hard. He growled at Prowl who bit his lower lip as he gazed down at him. "Mmmm that's better. If I have to be high so do you..."

"You knew?" Sentinel murmured dreamily as he felt slender fingers enter his valve.

"Mmhmm." The low vibrations of Prowl's vocals almost made him overload right there in his oversensitive state.

"You didn't stop... OooOOHH... wow...!"

"Couldn't, didn't want to."

Sentinel cried out in frustration as the fingers were removed from his wet valve. He desperately needed overload. "What does it do?" He slurred.

"Makes you go longer." Prowl whispered as he pushed his spike slowly into Sentinel's clenching valve. "Amongst other things." He added softly, his voice slow and sleepy sounding. The two mechs groaned with each grinding thrust of Prowl's, he removed the stasis cuffs allowing Sentinel to engulf him with his arms, gripping him tightly as he pushed further into him, picking up a furious pace. They cried out repeatedly, all senses focused on their next overload and the next and the next, this went on for over a mega cycle.

Oilslick stared on in amazement, his own arousal ebbing as he pumped his spike dry. That mushroom was potent; it was going to make him a fortune. He cleaned himself off, stepping out careful to avoid the writhing moaning mechs now pressed against the wall. Prowl was held firmly in Sentinel's lap as the blue 'bot thrust hard into his valve, making him scream out loud with pleasure.

Oilslick lifted the delicate mushroom and made for the door only to be stopped in his tracks as the door swung open forcefully. Arcee and Strika glared at him, as a drowsy Blackout moved out of the way having spent his remaining energy trying to open the locked door.

"And just vhere do ya think you're going?" Strika demanded. The two sluggish bouncers reached in and grabbed him dragging him out of the room. Arcee lifted the mushroom from his now cuffed hands.

"You won't be needing this." She placed it on the floor. Her head lifted at the erotic sounds coming from the far corner of the room. Her optics widened as she moved inside.

"Ooohhh Proowwll... YES... more... faster please... oh fraaaAAAAGG YES PROWL YES!!"

Sentinel roared through yet another overload, his hands slapping to the floor as he arched into the lithe ninjabot, who let out a soft moan of pleasure. Prowl suddenly jerked his head back as he hollered loudly, his entire frame shuddering from over stimulation.

Arcee closed her mouth and backed out of the room.

"Iz Prowl ok, vhaz he drugged?"

"Yeah... he's going to be fine...little embarrassed maybe... the poor dear, but fine." Arcee smiled, her cheeks slightly flushed at the image of the two mechs caught in the throes of overload. "Make sure we write up that bill for Sentinel before he leaves."

****


	8. The Heist, pt 1

_A/N Yeah, this is long (I'll post part 2 tomorrow) and I'm dragging in every Decepticon I've always had a thing for. (*cough*cough* Onslaught). My next one will be short, I promise!!_

The Heist, by antepathy (part one of two)

Barricade thrashed on the berth, three of his limbs flailing. The fourth wasn't flailing only because Blackout had it pinned to his chassis with one arm. While he licked the sole of Barricade's foot, his glossa trailing slowly between the toes.

"Stop it!" Barricade gasped, halfway between laughing and really turned on. "Primus, stop!!"

Blackout winked at him. "You didn't say the magic word."

"Fraggin' stop!" He squirmed again, his upper arm tires bouncing off the berth. Their berth, in the place they'd just rented. And this was Blackout's idea of a good christening apparently—perving up Barricade's feet. And it felt better than it had any right to feel.

"That's not the magic word, either, Barricade," Blackout said. "Gonna have to teach you some manners." Another lick, this time ending with him wrapping his mouth around one toe. Barricade sucked in a breath, his whole frame trembling.

"Frag you and your manners!"

"Aww, see, now you're just asking for it, Barricade," Blackout shook his head, shifting his position, freeing one hand to snap open his interface panel. "I'm not even sure you know the magic word." He licked his way along to the spur in the front of Barricade's foot. The smaller mech couldn't even put together the words for the curse he was feeling.

He gave a weird little squeal that embarrassed him as soon as it left his vocalizer as Blackout pushed his slick spike into the smaller mech's valve. "Since when…," he gasped, between Blackout's slow, even thrusts, "you have…such a perv…for feet?"

"I don't. Your reaction, on the other hand…." Blackout nipped the instep, lightly. Barricade squeaked, his palms slamming hard against the berth's brushed steel. Blackout's laugh rumbled through his torso. He loved watching Barricade squirm like this, his eyes glowing with desire, helpless against Blackout, and against his own lust. Hot, and hotter for the copter to realize he was the one who was bringing this out of the smaller mech. Blackout knew he wasn't exactly the hottest model off the assembly line, but sometimes, like now, Barricade could make him feel like it.

He could feel his spike sliding against the nodes in Barricade's valve, the little electrical pulses from contact against the pickup nodes in his spike setting off a rising charge to overload. He heard a half-moan, half-grunt from his own vocalizer, shifting his hips to a better angle. He nipped Barricade's foot again, almost losing his rhythm feeling the way the smaller mech's writhing twisted the sensornodes against his spike.

Oh, Barricade was so hot like this…. Moaning and whimpering and gasping and wriggling and--

POP!

A large black shape crashed onto Barricade. What the--?

"Ow." Barricade's voice was muffled under the bulk of what unfolded itself into a jet model.

"Sorry!" The jet bounced off Barricade's chassis into a worried ball next to him, hands reaching out as if to dust off the damage of his sudden arrival.

"Skywarp," Barricade groaned. "What the frag are you doing here?" A sentiment Blackout echoed. With a sigh, the copter pulled himself gently out of Barricade, releasing his foot. This was going nowhere right now.

"Sorry! It's just…when I get scared I do this warping thing and—"

"Yeah, I remember the warping. Normally you stay in one place."

Skywarp cringed at the interruption. "Yes but, well, please don't hurt me, but when I get REALLY scared, I, uh, think of someone not scary and…here I am."

"Congratulations," Blackout said, flatly. "You're not scary, Barricade." The smaller mech shot him a look of pure death. Skywarp whirled, catching sight of Blackout for the first time.

"Oh!" POP! The black jet disappeared, and then reappeared, clutching Barricade's head from behind like a shield. Barricade had tried to explain this warping thing to him, but Blackout hadn't believed him. It sounded so…stupid. And useless. The reality was even stupider and more useless than he could have ever imagined.

"Congratulations," Barricade said, his voice muffled by the jet's arm. "You are scary."

"Fantastic."

"Skywarp, this is my friend Blackout." Blackout tried not to bridle under the designation of 'friend'.

"Hi," Skywarp said, ducking down behind Barricade again. "Please don't hurt me?"

Blackout sighed. "Not gonna hurt you." He lifted his hands to show them empty—Skywarp squeaked and clutched Barricade's head tighter. But, he didn't 'pop.' Blackout wasn't sure that that was really an improvement.

"Sooooo," Barricade said, prying Skywarp's arm away from his mouth. "What brings you here, Skywarp?"

"I was scared."

Barricade rolled his eyes, grinning, at Blackout. Blackout frowned back. This wasn't funny. Barricade's grin faded. "Uh, yeah. So…what scared you?"

"Oh!" POP!

Wham! Barricade's head slammed back against the berth, only to be covered by the returning black jet's aft. This time, Blackout snorted. Barricade shoved Skywarp off him, roughly, biting his lip with embarrassment. Blackout stopped laughing. Poor Barricade. It wasn't that funny, and he was really upset.

"All right." Blackout snatched at Skywarp's arm. He didn't know if it could prevent him from doing that pop thing again, but it couldn't hurt. "So, calm down. What happened that scared you?"

Skywarp looked apologetically at Barricade. Blackout shook his hands to regain his attention. "I—they were trying to arrest me!"

"Who? Who was trying to arrest you?"

"The Autobot police! They think I'm a criminal! I'm NOT!" he wailed. But, he didn't pop. It was sad, Blackout thought, that he was beginning to think of that as an improvement.

"Criminal? YOU?" If he expected Skywarp to be insulted, he would have been disappointed.

"I know!" The black jet started shaking. "I'd never do anything like that! Someone could get hurt! Like me!"

"Okay, all right. Calm down." Blackout's irritation was giving way to sympathy. The poor mech was seriously clueless. And friendless. "Barricade?"

Barricade pushed himself up to sitting, crossing his legs. "Must think what I thought at first—that he's Starscream with a paint job."

"But they don't think that of the others, you know, at Inamorato."

Barricade tilted his head on his hand. "Yeah, but…who else would act suspicious and guilty and terrified of being found out?"

"Point taken."

Skywarp sat between them, his arm held in the copter's grasp, his wings shivering with fear. "Sorry," he mumbled, "I'm sorry." He opened his storage compartment and held out a double handful of glittering crystal jewels.

"Oh slag," Barricade breathed. "Those are stolen, aren't they?"

Skywarp cringed, folding one wing to guard his head. "Don't hurt me!"

"Well, we know why he's scared."

"Slag—he IS a criminal!"

"I—I didn't mean to. He told me to pick them up and then I just get scared and—"

"Yeah, we know. Pop."

"Sorry," the jet said, miserably.

"Don't apologize," Blackout said. "What do we do?"

Barricade looked as if he were physically in pain. 'We?' his mouth shaped. Blackout knitted his beetle brows at him. "It's the middle of the day," he said. "He can't go out right now!"

Barricade threw himself back onto the berth, aggrieved. "You don't mean he can stay here!"

Blackout shrugged. Yeah, he wasn't crazy about the idea himself, but honestly, where else could the big jet go? And he knew the name—this was the one Barricade had been with? Seriously? What the frag? How the Pit did interfacing even happen with this little coward? "You said he."

Skywarp flinched, the jewels scattering from his talons onto the berth. "I-I did?"

"You did," Barricade said, rolling over to look at the jewels. What? The jewels did attract the eye. "Who told you to pick them up?"

"He did. Thundercracker."

Blackout squinted at Barricade. "Another clone," the smaller mech said. "No idea what his deal is."

"So, you picked them up and…?"

"And he got so mad—he said they saw me as I was putting them in my storage and he got mad because they saw me and they'd throw me in jail and I'd just die there in jail—it's so scary with all those criminals who are very very mean!--and he's—oh he's so scary when he gets mad and I'd blown the whole thing and oh you have no idea how scary he can be and—" POP! Skywarp disappeared, jewels dropping from his fingers. He reappeared a half-klik later, arms wrapped around Barricade's head. Barricade's eyes blazed. He was losing what little temper he had.

"So," Blackout said, slowly. He didn't imagine he was the smartest mech ever, but something was missing in Skywarp's story. Like common sense. "You picked these up. You were supposed to put them in your storage compartment. And then what—I mean, what was supposed to happen?"

"I don't know. He said just to put them there."

Blackout exchanged a glance with Barricade. "Does he know about the, you know, the popping thing?"

"It's kind of hard to miss," Barricade muttered. Blackout glowered at him. "Yeah, yeah, I get it."

"Get—get what?"

"You were set up." Barricade sighed dramatically.

"Meaning… Thundercracker completely intended to scare you. He just didn't intend for you to warp—"

"--here." Barricade rubbed his facial crest. "Great. Now we have a wanted criminal."

"Always suspected life with you would be interesting, Cade." Barricade glowered at Blackout. He hated that nickname.

"This," the smaller mech said, "was not my fault."

Skywarp started hyperventilating. "Wanted criminal! That's bad, right? Ohhhh, this is awful. This is very, very bad."

"Not as bad as if/when they catch you."

Blackout rolled his optics. Only thing worse than a scaredy-mech was Barricade's ability to wind him up. Skywarp started shaking so badly his aft vibrated against the berth. "Don't worry," he said, soothingly. "We'll," he paused to glare down Barricade, who bridled at the pronoun, "help you. You can stay here for a while." Barricade signalled to him madly with his talons. Blackout shrugged.

//What the frag are you thinking?!// Barricade subvoc'd him, frantically.

// Can't dump the scaredy mech on the streets—next time he got Really Scared™ , he'd be right back here.//

//Frag. You're right.// He sighed aloud.

//Wish I could make you say that out loud. About a thousand times.// He grinned at the smaller mech's glare.

"Okay," Barricade grumped. "He can stay at our place. Only for a little while, though."

//Getting awfully possessive, aren't you? OUR PLACE?//

//Shut up, copter.//

****

Blackout woke up two megacycles later, right before his chrono went off. He was covering for Brawn tonight at Inamorato. Some dumb Autobot business. He didn't ask. More megas meant more creds and more creds meant…they could get nice things. Maybe even get some high grade every once in a while. Plus…tonight meant he got to work with Lugnut. The famous arena fighter.

Wait. Something was wrong here. He looked down at his left arm, the one Barricade normally fell asleep cuddling. Where the frag…?

Blackout rolled off the berth, moving quietly. It had always alarmed even his fellow 'cons how quietly he could move when needed. He crept across the rubberized floor matting to the small room next to the recharge station. They'd never had actual room before so all they'd gotten in there at the moment was an old repair cradle salvaged from a warship and a vidscreen.

And right now, Barricade was sprawled in the cradle, legs dangling over the floor, Skywarp's face buried in his hip. The jet's body was curled on his knees on the floor.

"AHEM!" Blackout cleared his vocalizer. They both jumped. Well, Barricade jumped, his talons catching in the cradle net, and Skywarp popped out and in.

"Blackout!" Barricade said, shoving the jet away from him. "It's not what it looks like!"

Skywarp cowered on the floor. "It's true. I…I couldn't recharge. I was so scared, and he came out here because I was whimpering and…," he ducked his face behind his hands, "don't hurt me?"

Blackout couldn't stop a wave of something like jealousy, even while he thought it was cute. Barricade, pretending like he didn't care. "I gotta go to work," he announced.

"Sucks to be you," Barricade said, but he struggled off the cradle to his feet. "What you want us to do about it? Hold a vigil?"

Blackout resisted the urge to pinch Barricade on the aft. His surliness was endearing. Well, once you got used to it. "I was thinking you could scout around and get some news, you know? How bad it is for Skywarp here." Skywarp looked like he was either going to melt into a puddle on the floor or make a puddle.

Barricade tilted his head, considering. "Yeah," he said, "I could do that." Blackout could tell from the gleam in Barricade's optics that he was already drawing up a list of contacts.

"Whu—what about me?" Skywarp asked. Blackout shook his head. Barricade had cheated on him with THIS? Oh, he was never going to live this down.

"You stay here," Blackout said. "No one will look for you here."

"But…," Skywarp cast anxious optics around the small room. "It'll get scary all alone."

Blackout shrugged this one off to Barricade. "I've got to get to work. I'll keep my audio open at the bar for any news."

"Meet you there if I get anything," Barricade said, startling Blackout by pulling the copter down for a brief kiss. Asserting a claim. Blackout didn't mind. Not at all.

******

Barricade tracked down Ground Hog with no problems at all—a few questions about who had the cheapest, most outlaw, most underground chop shop in Kaon led him right to The Technical Annoyance. Ground Hog didn't want to be bothered with reminiscences, nor any pesky questions about the sources of some of his more exotic used parts. And so Ground Hog had easily given up Roller Force's favorite bar, a sleazy looking place decorated with tattered pinups of femmebots and neon signs advertising brands of low-grade. As if one brand was more drinkable because they'd made a sign. A vidscreen with the sound off displayed the amateur nights at the Arena. The crowd scenes were jarring: howling, open mouths, faces constricted in rage or excitement, soundless.

Exactly how and where he'd expect to find good old RF: King of the hill, but a hill that was a mound of sewage. Hard to believe he'd worked with him during the war so well. Then, Roller Force's drive to prove he was the best had made him one of the best courier/intelligence mechs the 'cons had. Well, after Barricade himself, of course. Went without saying. Seems like after the war, he just gave up. Or chose less interesting competition. Barricade had a sudden hope he was doing better for himself.

"Roller," Barricade nodded, sliding onto a seat next to the gaudy mech.

"Cade," Roller Force hunched over his low-grade, as if afraid Barricade would snatch it away.

Barricade turned around to lean his elbows on the bar. "Long time no see, Roller Force. How's peace treating you?"

"Treatin' me fine." One hand slipped to rub, absently, at a poorly done weld in his chassis armor. His optics slipped to the vidscreen. Barricade got it. Roller Force had tried his hand at arena fighting.

"Sidelined for repairs?" he asked, casually. "Missed your fights. Let me know, I'd've been there."

"Been there for what? Tell me how you coulda done better?"

Barricade smiled, thinly. "Not a fighter, and you know it, Roller." Leave the fighting to the big dumb ones was Barricade's thought. A small mech was an idiot to throw himself into that mess.

"What you want, Barricade? You ain't here to catch up."

Barricade let his own optics drift to the vidscreen for a long moment. He felt a sudden pang of relief that at least Blackout had had the sense not to do this stupid arena stuff. The mech on the screen was getting his arm twisted off by another mech, his face a rictus of agony, sparks and fluids shooting from his injured joint.

He decided to start with a little buttering up. "No one's as good as you at situational awareness." Roller Force grunted, but didn't cut him off. Waiting to hear the rest. "Wanted to know if you'd heard anything about a robbery."

"Lots of robberies. It's Kaon."

"Was thinking around Iacon. Some jewels. Criminal still on the run."

Roller Force looked at him through narrowed optics. "Why you want to know?"

"Heard there's a reward." He shrugged with a discomfort that was only half feigned. "Could use the money, honestly."

Roller Force grunted again, swirling his low grade in its container. "Reward, huh? You know anything comes I want a cut."

"Naturally."

"Half."

"Slag yourself. Twenty percent. Standard informant's fee."

Roller Force's optics were hard on him for a long moment. Barricade kept his pose, and his face, studiously casual. "All right. Twenty. Not likely you'd get the reward anyway, so stupid to haggle."

"So…what do you know?"

"Don't know nothin'."

Barricade sighed. Waste of time. "Disappoint me, Roller Force," he said, pushing himself off the stool.

Roller Force pushed him back with one splayed hand. "Didn't say I had nothin' for you. Just nothin' I know for sure. Lot of rumor. Just happened, really, so, you know, fog of war and all that."

Barricade sat back on the stool. "So what's in the fog?"

Roller Force made a face. "Bunch of nonsense. Megatron's orders, tryin' to remob the army for another whack at Iacon. Autobots did it to frame a Decepticon so they could start trouble—even showed footage of one of our air models, you know? Wouldn't put it past 'em, honestly. Specially not that Sentinel idiot." He took a swallow of his lowgrade. The bartender sidled over. Wordlessly, Barricade pointed to the glass, and held out his wrist comp. Standard intel practice: Lubricate the informant.

"Seem pretty farfetched."

"Yeah, well, all juicy rumors start at the top. Beyond that, it's an idea that some new one, a third faction, starting up, trying to get money. Or, you could just go with your basic greed. No one on Cybertron above theft, if the amount were high enough." He said the last in a way that made Barricade suspect it was partly a confession.

"So," Barricade said, with the old familiarity. "Your money's on the third option. Greed and no political connection."

"Too bold, and so, too fraggin' dumb, to be professionals."

"Yeah," Barricade said. And how. "That's what I thought."

Roller Force accepted his drink easily, tossing back the dregs of his glass before handing it back to the bartender. "Whoever did it ought to be fraggin' embarrassed. Slag it, Cade, you and I coulda pulled that job so fast and so easy they'd not even realize the stuff was missin' yet."

Barricade grinned. "If we had our old resources, yeah."

Roller Force let out a belch. "Good ol' days, huh. You ever miss 'em?"

"Sometimes," Barricade lied.

*****

Blackout decided he didn't just like this job, he loved it. Inamorato was the classiest place he'd ever seen. He felt classy just standing there, and his 'Staff' brassard-magnets made him feel like he belonged. General Strika was a great boss and her partner Arcee was the nicest Autobot he'd ever met and…wow, he just couldn't say enough positive about it. He was over the proverbial moon tonight, working with Lugnut. The arena fighter had to be the nicest 'con he'd ever met. Modest, quiet, and apparently gonzo in love with Strika. Lugnut had even remembered Barricade from the war, and asked about him. Classy.

At first the clones had weirded him out, the yellow one hanging all over him, telling him how hot he was, suggesting things he could do with his forearm guns; the darker one seconding the 'hot' part, and swearing that Sunstorm was never like this. But he was a one-mech mech and sooner or later they got the hint that he wasn't going to succumb, so they left him alone. Good thing, because for some reason, Lugnut looked a little scared every time they came into contact.

"You go to bar now," Strika said, as he was finishing up his break's allotment of energon. For employees. And not low-grade. Classy! "Lugnut vill valk the upper vloorz. Zen you hit ze bazzs."

It took him a cycle to realize she meant 'baths.' Cool bunnies. He nodded, "Yes, General."

"Zwhut I like about yoo and Lugnut," she said, patting his head. "Zo obedient. Good zoldiers, you vere." He glowed under her compliment, and hustled to the bar.

The probationary femme was dancing on the stage, filmy fabric swirling around her as she moved sinuously to a subdued beat. The movement was fluid and organic looking. Not like a proper mech at all. Blackout tried to imagine Barricade moving like that, and nearly lost his suitable professional composure snorting back a laugh.

She was pretty, he had to admit. But femmes: he had no idea what you did with them. He decided the best use for femmes was to look at them. Yeah. Look at the pretty femmes. That's it. Anything else, any other thought, made him think of General Strika, and thinking of Strika in any way that was pervy sent frissons of pure Wrongness up his backstruts. Yep. Just look at them.

His eyes scanned the crowd: apparently on weeknights the bar crowd was an after-work crowd. He got the distinct feeling more than one workday had carried on to here—heads bent over tables in earnest discussion. He recognized Warpath from old briefings of the 'know your enemy' variety, and Rodimus, and Ratchet as well. And that one—he didn't know his name—who had perved up Barricade's feet. Blackout grinned. Okay, he kinda owed that mech for turning him on to that idea.

Which reminded him of unfinished business. And why it was unfinished. Right. Keep his audio open.

A megacycle later and he'd learned nothing. Well, nothing useful. Only that the foot-perv's name was Wheeljack, and he still had it in for feet. And that the Autobots still clamped up whenever a 'con like him came near. No politics, no factions. Nice ideal. Time to check out the bazzs. Baths. Baths, he corrected himself, thinking how hard Barricade would laugh if he started slipping into Strika's accent again.

A metallic crack split the air just when he hit the doorway. He spun. Chromia, the dancer, her hand caught in the larger hands of a blue and gold mech. A 'con. Onslaught, Blackout recognized. Oh, this was a weird thing about this job. Thinking about his former superiors in pervy ways. He supposed he'd have to get used to it.

He lumbered over, making sure to tread as heavily as he could. Lugnut has suggested that to him as a tip to intimidate others. Moving silent was good, Lugnut had said, but sometimes you had to use everything you had to make an impression and save the servo work for the tough stuff. Lugnut, giving him advice. Awesome.

He nodded, neutrally, at the two of them. Not choosing sides. Technically, he was supposed to try to side with the customer—that was Madam Arcee's directive—but he'd figured out early on that getting on Chromia's bad side would be about as bad an idea as getting on Barricade's bad side. "What's the problem?"

She shook her wrist free. "Filthy mouth on this one."

"At least it's just my mouth," Onslaught said, dryly.

"Oh yes, I bet you don't have a filthy thought in your head," she snapped. "Probably overload by the numbers, you pathetic military types."

Onslaught smirked, and a mech behind him moved to hide a laugh behind a hand. "You're going to have a hard time working here, sweetheart, with this anti-military bias."

She was heating up a scathing reply, but Blackout cut her short. "What happened?"

Onslaught shrugged. "She came over, wanting me to buy her a drink. More like buy her for the night. I told her to set her price a little higher than some midgrade."

"My price is higher," she hissed, her wings flittering in their clamps. "You have no idea, because you couldn't afford me."

"Uh," Blackout said, "He probably could." Onslaught was High Command: chances are he lived in a better place than the cuberoom he and Barricade had just rented. Way better. "But," he added, hastily, seeing Chromia's white rage, "That's not the point. That comment wasn't slap worthy."

"Of course not," Chromia said, cutting off the Combaticon. "I told him I could take him places he'd never been."

"I just said I didn't really want to go to the clinic for social diseases," Onslaught said, the wry grin quirking the corner of his mouth.

Okay, that was a little out of line. But still. It was kind of funny. "Right," Blackout said. "Miss Chromia, I'll take care of it."

"I want him banned. Forever."

"Not gonna happen," Blackout said. "Not on my authority. Gonna have to take that up with General Strika." Chromia punched her hands into her hips, furious, and stomped off to the business office, filmy banners trailing gently in the air.

"General Strika?" Onslaught said.

"She owns the place," Blackout said. "She and some Autobot femme."

Onslaught tilted his head, as if fitting that piece of information into a puzzle. "And you…Blackout, yes?"

Blackout felt his facial plates heat in happiness at the recognition. Team Char had been a good strike force, but he wasn't exactly a household name. "Yes, sir," he said.

"How's peacetime treating you?"

Blackout considered. What would an important mech like Onslaught really care about? "Got a job," he said, finally.

"I can see that." Onslaught smiled, patiently. "Are you in touch with anyone else from the old days?"

"A few." Did Onslaught really want to hear about this? "Kinda Barricade." He winced at the hypocrisy. Wasn't it just earlier today he'd gotten upset at being demoted to 'friend'? And here he was turning Barricade into a 'kinda'?

"Barri—oh. One of the spy couriers."

Blackout nodded.

"Interesting."

Blackout felt distinctly like he wasn't keeping up his part of the conversation. "Uhhh, and you, sir? How are you?"

Onslaught shrugged. "At a loss. Been at war for so long, you know. Hard to 'go back to' what you never knew in the first place."

Yeah, Blackout knew that feeling. This seemed like it would end depressingly. He scrounged for another topic. "Oh, did you hear about that robbery? In Iacon?" Why not? Kill two cyberbirds with one bolt. If anyone was plugged in to current events, it was probably a former commander.

"What robbery?" The mech sitting next to him—must be Vortex, his former aide-de-camp—leaned forward and whispered in his audio. Onslaught paused, probably, by the sudden vagueness of his expression, on subvoc. Aloud, he finally said, "Stupid job, poorly handled. And wrong target."

"How do you mean?"

"Strategically, I mean." Onslaught made a gesture with his hands, as if demonstrating something. "Look, you want to get away with a crime, your best bet isn't to have your first heist," he didn't seem to notice Blackout's twitch, "be not only very public and very expensive stuff, but Allspark fragments as well." Blackout's capacitor stalled for a klik. Allspark fragments?

"Cu—can they, ummm, you know, track the Allspark fragments?" Blackout asked. His mind raced to his apartment: Skywarp, the stolen jewels, their whole start at a real life….

A tilt of his head, his eyes unreadable behind his visor. "The Autobots? Never were very good at it. Now, they could always ask us for help, but…."

Behind him, Vortex snorted. "Right, Sentinel Magnus asking us anything." He sounded bitter. In a weird way, Blackout thought, that was kind of a relief.

"Uhhh, right." He had to talk to Barricade. NOW. "So, like, you mechs are cool, right? No hard feelings or anything?" He popped two drink tokens out of his compartment. "I gotta get back to my rounds," he said, lamely.

"Oh, that?" Onslaught waved his hand toward the door Chromia had exited. "Just part of the evening's entertainment." He pushed the tokens back at Blackout. His eyes were strangely keen on the copter's face.


	9. The Heist, pt 2

A/N: If it's good enough to do, it's good enough to overdo. Welcome to another perv-start to Part Two of The Heist. Sorry again for it being so long!

Barricade groaned as his wing fairings flattened against the table in the Inamorato Employee's Break Room, Blackout's face buried in his throat. "Thought you called me here for a reason?" he gasped around the tidal wave of arousal. Fraggin' copter.

"This isn't a reason?" Blackout's hands drifted to Barricade's interface hatch, rubbing gentle fingers over the smaller mech's covers. Barricade squirmed, feeling a leak of lubricant from his spike's housing. Blackout grinned down at him. He was getting tired of the copter taking charge like this. He'd have to do something about that…later. Right now, Blackout's hand stroked his spike in a way that kind of gnawed away at his objections.

"You know," he muttered, "What I meant."

"Yeah." The copter leaned close, clapping a hand over Barricade's mouth, pushing his lubricated spike into Barricade's valve with a sigh. He looked up at something over Barricade's head, and nodded, gruffly. Barricade was dimly aware of the sound of someone moving around in the room, the beep of a beverage heater signalling that someone's drink was warm, all somehow mixed in the delicious sensations of the copter's slow strokes in his valve.

The sound of a door shutting. Blackout paused, mid-thrust. "Problems," he whispered.

Barricade writhed. "Problems, later. Interface, now." His talons clawed desperately at the copter's larger arms, his legs locking around Blackout's waist.

Blackout moved, gently, in the valve. "Problems and interface," he said. "Compromise."

"Frag…," Barricade cursed, but his eyes glazed happily.

"Some of the jewels have Allspark energy, meaning they're like super valuable, and sup—"

"Traceable." Barricade rocked his pelvic frame against Blackout's, impatiently. "Frag."

"You find anything?" Blackout picked up the pace, feeling the charge build in his spike. Oh, he'd missed out on this earlier. He was determined to make this good.

"Me?" Barricade paused to moan, softy, his eyes drifting closed for several kliks. "Motive probably greed. Suspect it's commissioned. No one with a clue would pull a job so—OH!" Blackout seized him by his shoulder plating, driving into him ferociously. Damn. What the frag was wrong with the copter? Did he want information or this? He tipped his head back with effort to see a pink and white femme looking into a cabinet.

"If he's a customer," the femme said over her shoulder, "The house gets a cut."

"Not a customer," Blackout said. "Break. Working here kinda, you know…."

She turned and offered him a sincere grin. "Well, that IS the idea, right?" She winked at Barricade, flat on the table.

"Uh, hi," he gasped. "Be off your table in a klik." Blackout's coworkers were weird. Was she going to watch the whole time?

"Take your time," she grinned. "I have to get back to the office." She turned at the door. "You two make a cute couple."

"Thanks," Blackout said, nodding. "Boss," he explained to Barricade as the door swung shut. He slowed his pace. "Sorry. Had to find some way to make sure you didn't say anything, you know."

Barricade locked his fingers into the copter's armor. "Apologize later. Problems, later. Overload. NOW."

Blackout grinned, bending over to nip at one of Barricade's upper-arm tires, building a steady rhythm with his thrusts. Barricade sank his teeth into the copter's audio as he overloaded, his valve gripping fiercely against Blackout's overcharged spike. Blackout shuddered in response. The two hung there for a long moment, shivering in the aftereffect of the long-delayed overload.

"Fraggin' tease," Barricade muttered, finally. His chassis heaved as he struggled to bring his ventilation under control.

"Had to for our cover story. Besides. Unfinished business from this morning."

Barricade stretched his arms over his head, arching his back, eliciting a gasp from Blackout as the motion changed the pressure of the nodes against his spike. "Yeah? I still consider that unfinished."

"What now?"

"What now? You go back to work. I'm going to hit the bar and see what I can find."

"The foot perv is here tonight."

"Just his luck the edge is off my horniness, huh?" He grinned cheekily at Blackout.

"You…you can if you want. I mean, I'm not asking you to be, you know, monogomongoose or anything."

"Monogomongoose?" Barricade snickered.

"You know, not sleeping around."

"Primus." Barricade sat up, easing his valve off the copter's spike, leaning forward to tease one of Blackout's rotors. "Forget sometimes you're mostly illiterate."

Blackout hung his head. It was a sore point for him. He hated being the Big Stupid Guy. Even if he was the Big Stupid Deadly Guy. "Working on that," he muttered.

Barricade looked uncomfortable. He lay the rotor gently against the copter's shoulder. "Yeah. First thing we get for the new place, we get us a datapad, okay?"

"Really?"

"Yeah. We'll do it together."

Blackout squooshed the smaller mech against his chassis. Everyone warned him that Barricade was a no-good user. He knew different. "I'd like that," he said.

"Oh Primus you're killing me," Barricade gasped, breathlessly. Blackout released his embrace. "Right. Datapad. But first, we have to make sure we don't end up in jail."

****

Skywarp had apparently managed to stay fairly not-scared by building himself a small fort in the tiny maintenance facility, bolstering the steel walls with the dubious protection of Barricade's collection of field manuals and Blackout's heavy combat armor.

"Hey," Barricade said, a little irritation in his voice, because he kinda needed to use the maint fac for its intended purposes, "come on out."

"No. Safe in here."

Barricade rolled his eyes at Blackout, leaning on the other side of the doorframe. "Really? Safe? You know what kind of germs grow in—"

POP!

"Frag it, I did sort of ask for this one," Barricade muttered, staggering under Skywarp's sudden weight. He sighed as Blackout pried the jet off him. "Can you explain it to him?"

Blackout sat the jet down on the repair cradle in the other room, trying to look not scary. Harder than it sounded. "Right. Skywarp, we've got a plan, and we need your help."

"That's what Thundercracker said!" the black jet wailed, wringing his hands.

"Yeah, but this one fixes that one. We're going to put the stuff back."

"Put it back?"

"Yeah. You're not a thief if nothing's been, well, thieved, right?"

Skywarp tilted his head. "Yes, that makes sense. Then they won't put me in jail?"

"No." Not if this works. Well. In theory. It was a pretty scrappy plan: even Barricade admitted it. They were both kind of rattled by the whole Allspark crystal thing. Regular (expensive) jewels were bad enough, but neither side had any detectors that would lead them straight to the tiny cube-apartment on the sixth floor. But in theory, it would work.

"Whu—what do you need me to do?"

"Your part's the easiest. Here's how it goes. Barricade and I go to that museum place. I can disrupt their security cameras. Barricade finds a good place to stash the loot. Now, here's the question: can you warp to a mech when you want to? Like from here even if you're not scared?"

"I'm never not scared."

"Ooookay. Moot point. Can you warp to precisely where Barricade is?"

Pop!

"DAMMIT!" the sound echoed from the small maintenance facility. "Seriously. Can a mech drain a little oil in here?!"

Blackout snickered. "Uh, Skywarp, I didn't mean right now."

"Oh." Pop. Skywarp appeared back in the repair cradle. "He's kind of scary right now," he reported.

"Don't worry about it." Blackout hated to admit it, but the little wuss was kind of growing on him.

"So I warp over to him when you say I should, and give him the jewels, right?" Yes! Catching on. Behind the pansy exterior the mech could actually process.

"Yep. Then you warp right back out. We put the stuff back, and we all meet up here for a celebration."

"That—that sounds like, uhh, fun?" Skywarp's eyes drifted to the doorway. Barricade leaned against the frame with one hand, glaring.

"Oh, real fun," Blackout said. "Don't worry about him. He's, just…uhhh, overwhelmed at your trust, Skywarp."

"Overwhelmed looks an awful lot like scary."

"Yeah, he gets that a lot."

"So…when do we do this?"

"Couple of megas." Blackout yawned. "Just got off shift. He and I need some recharge. You're welcome to watch vids or whatever."

"Can I recharge too?"

"Sure. Probably a good idea." Blackout rose and headed to the berth room. Oh, it was a bland boring slab of metal but it looked inviting. He laid himself out, holding his arm away from his chassis so Barricade could rest against him. Barricade plopped onto the berth. A shape at the foot of the berth. "What?" he asked, exhausted.

"I-I can recharge too, right?" Barricade's recharge-drooped eyes tried to send some kind of warning to him.

"I said yeah," Blackout mumbled.

POP. The black jet reappeared between the two of them, his broad wings acting as spatulas, as he squirmed, until they were resting on his wings. He wriggled, happily. "Not scary," he announced, and closed his eyes. Barricade lifted his head just high enough to shoot Blackout a Look of Death over the jet's cockpit. Frag.

*****

The museum was everything Barricade hated about Autobots, but in architectural form. Monumental, too clean, and full of itself. But he tried to put it aside. Get it done, get it over with. The new temp paint job itched. He didn't know how he'd let Blackout talk him into the racing stripe. The Autobot insignia would have gleamed suspiciously new to anyone other than Autobots, who apparently spent megas every morning polishing their armor. Vain crowd, all of them. Even the younglings, herded through in some school group tour looking thing seemed pretty shiny.

//Hey, Barricade?//

//Yeah?// Blackout was two galleries away: they'd come in separately. Wouldn't cross paths once this entire op. The only one in any real danger was Barricade. He hoped.

//What gallery is it in?//

//My guess is 'Gemological Wonders'. You want me to spell part of it for you?//

//Nah. I got it. Hey. Maybe, you know, we could come back here later? Some stuff here looks kinda cool.//

He felt his posture soften. //Yeah. When we start doing history, okay?//

//Cool bunnies. I'll let you know when it's out.// Barricade had the distinct feeling that not too long ago he would have laughed pitilessly at Blackout's enthusiasm. Right now he'd rip out the optic of anyone who even snickered.

Barricade pretended he was engrossed (really, grossed out) by a painting that was from some famous artist during the Protectorate. Maybe it hadn't aged well, he thought, charitably. Right now it looked like the last time he'd overcharged and purged all over the street. He snorted. Blackout had been there, too. Primus, how far back did he go with the damn rotorhead?

He heard a distant thrummm, almost like a large engine kicking on far far away. Almost inaudible. But, he'd been listening for it.

//Done?// he asked.

//Yeah. Guess you recognize the sound by now.//

//Good job.// He could feel Blackout preen under the praise. //Now you head to the exit and get clear.//

He crossed through the next two galleries slowly enough not to attract notice, and slipped into the one that featured crystals and stones from all over the universe, illuminated from all sides. The room itself was nearly black, allowing the gems to shine starkly in their lights.

There was a small battered shelter around one display stand. The one with the missing stuff, or Barricade wasn't Cybertron's biggest jerk. With the cutest feet. He ducked behind the battered grey wall. //Skywarp? Ready.//

Pop! He winced, hoping the shuffling feet and murmurs of appreciation covered the sound. Skywarp appeared behind him, quivering. "This is it!" he whispered, urgently, pointing to the display case. "This is where it happened!!"

"Yeah!" Barricade whispered back. "Kinda got that! Now, hand 'em over." Skywarp dropped the jewels, rolled in a cleansing rag, into Barricade's hand.

"You'll be okay?" Skywarp's hands started trembling.

"Be fine. You go. Join you and the copter in a bit." The jet hesitated. "Go!" he muttered.

"Hey what--?!" A new voice, and a face, appearing around the edge of the shelter. Skywarp squealed, popping out. Barricade stood, stupidly, holding a handful of jewels worth more than a war cruiser.

*****

"I thought as much. I knew all along it was a Decepticon plot." The big jerk, Sentinel Magnus, strutted back and forth, his blue and yellow armor polished to a shine that practically squeaked with vanity.

"Not really that much of a plot," Barricade said, dryly. The stasis cuffs were squeezing his wrist tires, and the subvoc block on a collar around his neck was chafing. Not like he had much to say to Blackout, hunched beside him in much the same condition, other than to punch him in the face and ask why he didn't get out like he was supposed to.

The arrogant Autobot paraded over to a table, holding up the magnetized Autobot logos. "Impersonating outside of your faction. That's espionage." He tried to put the magnet down, but it stuck to his fingers. A moment of wrestling ensued, the magnet clinging to fingers, chest, and even, at one point, his foot.

"It's a magnet," Barricade said. "Just didn't want to be harassed coming into Iacon." Stupid to resist, but it was instinctual at this point in Barricade's short and twisted career.

"What's your relationship to this mech?" Sentinel pointed at Barricade. Before Blackout could answer, Barricade blurted. "Never seen him before in my life!"

"Oh, come on, Barricade!" Blackout protested. "First you deny we're in relationship, now you wanna pretend you don't even know me!"

Barricade dropped his head low enough to bang it on his knee. STUPID, stupid Blackout. "I was trying," he hissed, "to get you off the fraggin' hook, desk fan."

"Oh. Uhhh. Ooops?" Yeah. Ooops.

"So you DO know each other!" Sentinel planted his hands on his hips.

"Yeah, boss man, the big one just said that. 'Pparently they're friends." A white mech with racing stripes leaned against the door, apparently just in case either of them wanted to exit without invitation.

"A CONSPIRACY!" Sentinel howled. "This is an act of war!"

"Looks more like a botched robbery, to me." Jazz seemed more reasonable. Well, Barricade thought, a spore mold seemed like it would be more reasonable than this Autobot. If this was Autobot leadership, he'd take Megatron any day.

"Actually, it was more like a botched un-robbery," he said. "We were putting the stuff back."

"A likely story." Sentinel leaned in close enough that his ginormous chin poked Barricade's chest.

"Actually, man," Jazz said, "It sounds like a pretty unlikely story." Yeah, definitely Jazz was the voice of reason.

"Jazz," Sentinel said, sighing with false patience. "I respect your abilities, such as they are. But politics is," he waved a hand, airily, "Above your head. There is a reason I'm the Magnus." Jazz quieted, but something dark came over his visor that in a better situation would have intrigued the hell out of Barricade.

"So look," Blackout blurted, trying to make up for his previous gaffe. "You got your stuff back, no harm done, and you look like a reasonable mech, Mr. Sentinel Magnet, sir, so, how about you let us go. No hard feelings."

"And the robbery gave you all that publicity, for free," Barricade added. He didn't have a spark's hope it would work: he just wanted to show Blackout he was on his side.

"And, maybe we could get our cleansing rag back."

Barricade winced. The white mech snorted something that might have been a laugh. Sentinel Magnus was coming to a boil—probably not realizing the 'Sentinel Magnet' thing wasn't intentional. Not from Blackout. From Barricade, it would have been. Barricade filed that one away for future reference. Before the Autobot Magnus could unload, the sounds of mayhem tore everyone's optics to the door. The two Autobots bolted.

They could hear the sounds of a fight outside. "You okay, Blackout?"

"Yeah." The copter hung his head. "I blew it. Obviously."

"What happened?" Barricade tried to keep the frustration out of his voice.

"One of the Inamorato customers recognized me, and that I wasn't really an Autobot."

Barricade's irritation faded. "Oh. That's not your fault, Blackout."

"Wouldn't have happened if I didn't take that stupid job."

"Thought you liked that job."

"I do." His head hung lower.

"Shhhh, We'll get out of this. Promise."

Blackout looked up, his optics a little clearer. "Yeah." Whatever he was going to say next got lost in the rising ruckus outside. The door slammed open, and Skywarp skidded across the floor, arms bound.

Oh great. Just when you think it can't get any worse, Barricade thought. "Skywarp," he said.

"What the frag are you doing here?" Blackout said. "You're supposed to be back at the cube, waiting for us."

"It---it was on the newsvids, and I got so scared and I didn't know where to look for you so I went to that place you work—you know, the kinda scary place with the really germy curtains? And you weren't there either and no one had any idea what was going on and it was all my fault and I had to do something."

"So." Barricade rolled his optics. "You tried a full frontal assault on the museum." He shook his head. "That's your idea of doing something."

"It's a something! I did it!" The mech started shivering. The stasis cuffs blocked him from warping and Barricade could tell it was freaking him out. Still. An attack on the museum? It was…unexpected. Especially from the Purple Pansy.

"Okay. Calm down. At least we're all here together, right?" He ignored the look Blackout shot him.

"I presume," Sentinel said, pausing in the doorway, hands on his hips, turning his chin so his profile was well backlit, "This is another of your conspirators."

"We're not conspiring to anything other than idiocy," Barricade snapped, "And we're here to get lessons from the master."

Sentinel's blue optics shot sparks of outrage. "I AM THE MAGNUS! I do not have to take backtalk from you!"

"Uhhh, Sentinel?" The white mech, tugging at Sentinel's arm. Sentinel was studying the effect of his noble silhouette on the far wall. "Visitors."

"The Magnus does not have time for visitors. This is a crisis of State."

"Uhhh, you have time for these visitors." Barricade couldn't see what Sentinel saw when he turned his head, but he went almost white. The door clanged shut on them again.

*****

General Strika sat behind her large exotic rosewood desk, tapping on its surface with irritated fingers. Next to her sat her partner, the slim white and pink mech. A little beside them, Onslaught, his face unreadable behind his battle mask. The fact that he masked up was enough to tell Barricade he probably didn't want to see. The three of them—Barricade, Blackout and Skywarp, stood at the position of parade rest in front of them. Another sign of Badness.

"I fouch ffor yoo, yes, Blackout," General Strika was saying. "Yoo muzzt be employee here in goot shtanding, yoo understanding?" Blackout nodded. "Andt the black one. Vhut is he? Shyvarp? Skyffarp?"

"Close enough," Barricade said. He wondered what horrors awaited him. He'd had one dressing down during the war from General Strika, and he didn't care to repeat the experience. Nor did he want to know what Onslaught's part in all of this was.

"Anozzer yoossless clone." She rolled her optics. "I am up to audio vizz zeze clones!"

"He can be useful," Barricade said, smoothly. The more time they spent talking about the others, the more time he had before his inevitable aft-whipping. "He has a useful talent—if directed by someone with your keen abilities."

"Zilenz, Barricade. I haff Zunztorm iff I vish to haff my armor bolished."

"He makes a good point, though," Onslaught offered, mildly, cocking one ankle across the other knee. Perfectly relaxed. Perfectly at home.

"We could," the pink Autobot said, "use someone for closed-circuit surveillance. No one else wants the job. Small room, long hours just watching vidscreens."

They looked at Skywarp expectantly. He shuddered, as if their optics hurt him. "Is—is the door lockable?"

"We can install a deadbolt if you'd like."

"Three!" he blurted. "Ummm, I like three deadbolts. Lucky number." Onslaught's optics flickered from Skywarp back to Barricade, one eyeridge raised. Barricade squeezed his optics shut. "And—do I have to leave to eat?" His voice dropped to a whisper, "Please say no."

"We have a room in the upper floors you can have," Arcee said. She sounded like a schoolteacher, Barricade decided. Which was maybe what Skywarp needed. "And you don't have to leave, no."

"Which brings us," Onslaught said, leaning even further back in his chair, "to you, Barricade."

Arcee stood up. "I," she announced, "Have to check on things for opening tonight. You gentlemechs will excuse me." This did not bode well.

Barricade felt his shoulders sag. Here it was. He knew he'd blown it…how many ways? The plan was slag, his partners—Primus knows they tried, though—were incompetents, the whole idea was just…well, it was not a shining star in his record of devious acts.

"Madams Strika and Arcee vouched for Blackout, as an employee with a clean record and a positive work history. They extended themselves to Skywarp, for the sake of his clones." Barricade got the idea that wasn't the whole story, but he knew that backtalk here would get him a backhand. He merely nodded, glumly. "You, they couldn't vouch for. No work history. Known associates, with the exception of Blackout here, reads like Iacon's Most Wanted. You, in short, were a problem."

"Always am, sir," he said, miserably. Cave in now and maybe it won't be so hard. He waited. They could throw him in the brig for it: The Sentinel guy was a moron, but he had broken—how many laws? And endangered the fragile peace of Cybertron? Surely the Autobots would demand someone do some hard labor. And Barricade was the natural choice. He shot an agonized farewell look at Blackout.

"So." Onslaught leaned forward, his feet flat on the floor. "Congratulations, Barricade. Your little stunt has cost you your freedom."

Barricade expected it, but still, it staggered him back. "Yes, sir. I am allowed to sign over my possessions, or are they being confiscated?" Not that he had anything Blackout would want, but if the copter could get any creds selling it….

The three behind the desk exchanged a strangely amused glance.

"I vouched for you, Barricade. You're now an official courier. The pay isn't much, and the hours suck, but I'm sure you'll find it's better than a penal colony.

"Courier?" It was only slowly seeping into his cortex that he wasn't being sentenced to hard time.

"Well," Onslaught's eyes glinted. "That's your official title. Your list of known associates is just a little more useful than the symbolism of throwing you in the brig." Onslaught pushed an audio node at him across the desk. "Official contact channel. Do NOT abuse it." His eye ridges quirked, knowing it would only be a matter of time before Barricade did. "Anything else you need?"

"No—yeah, wait." Barricade narrowed his eyes, craftily. Get one over on Barricade? Not on his worst day. And this day was pretty bad, but not that bad. "Need a datapad. Top of the line."

Onslaught gave a sound that might have been a laugh. "Sure."

"And—and loaded with elementary shellware." Barricade made his gaze as level as possible. No trickery here. "You know. Cover story."

Strika and Onslaught exchanged another look, their optics then drifting to Blackout, who had started bouncing. "Sure," Onslaught said, shaking his head. "Good cover story."

"Yoo teach him yoozful zings, Barricade," Strika said. "None of your nonzenze."

"Yes, ma'am," he said. Trying to keep his head low, abashed, but feeling a glint of victory creeping across his face. He'd managed to salvage something out of this.

Onslaught rose to his feet. "That'll be all. Report to me tomorrow…end of dutycycle. We'll meet, here."

Dismissed. Strika took Skywarp, who was torn between terror at her appearance and hope at the promise of the small enclosed room with no windows, and yes, she'd install some hand sanitizer if he wanted.

"Isn't this great?" Blackout said, when they made it to the hall. "Now you have a job, too!"

"Oh yeah, great."

Blackout pinned him against the wall with a hard kiss. "Thanks for the datapad."

"Won't thank me when lessons start."

"You sure you want to do this?"

"Blackout, if I can teach Roller Force how to pass for a civilized member of society, I can teach you how to read." Suddenly, he thought of Roller Force, squatting on that stool in that dingy bar. Unemployed, drifting, aimless. Maybe, he thought, a job wasn't such a bad thing, if it saved him from that.


	10. In the Baths

_A/N: yeah, me again. My other two collaborators are busy with like, life and stuff and will have tasty bits of plotty goodness for y'all later this week. Til then, please enjoy some completely plotless robot perv. Sticky. Like whoa. _

In the Baths, by antepathy

Onslaught frowned up at Lugnut. "Yes, I understand the house policies. But this is important. I need to find Vortex." Damn Vortex had turned his comm off. Against regulations. Onslaught would have a word or three with him about that later.

Lugnut shifted uncomfortably on his feet. "Madam Arcee and Madam General Strika say those are the rules. Privacy. You can't go barging into rooms that have been paid for."

Onslaught ran a hand over his helm, impatiently. "Can you at least tell me if you've seen him here tonight?"

"Privacy," Lugnut said, lamely. "Sorry. House polic—"

"Yes, yes, I know. House policies." Onslaught paused, as if thinking something over. He shook his head, sadly. "Lugnut, Lord Megatron will be very disappointed to hear that you are impeding official Decepticon business."

"L-lord Megatron?" Lugnut's spine straightened, optics snapping alert. "I-I, oh, please don't tell the glorious Megatron I was—"

Onslaught shrugged, impersonating reasonable behavior. "Well, what else can I tell him? You don't expect me to lie, do you? To Mega-to Lord Megatron?"

Lugnut's five optics darted from side to side. "Uhhh, I saw him. Vortex." He spoke out of the corner of his shovel mouth. "With a blue femme."

"Moonracer," Onslaught said. Vortex was supposed to be talking with her. Convincing her to work for them. But they weren't in the bar, where Onslaught presumed the most reasonable of the TALKING went on.

"I guess so." Lugnut paused to glower at a rowdy table of overcharged Autobots. They quieted. "He, uh, he went to one of the rooms. I don't remember upper or not. Only three are reserved private for tonight. I—I can't let you go in them, but you can like wait outside or something."

"Is he in one of the private rooms?" Onslaught didn't fancy waiting while Vortex got himself laid. Much less waiting all night.

"I don't know. Honest! You have to believe me. I just know which ones are on private and for how long!"

Onslaught's visor glared up at Lugnut, who held his claws up, helplessly. Big moron was telling the truth. "Fine. If you see him, stop him. Can you do that for me, soldier?"

"Yes, Commander Onslaught."

"And these unreserved rooms—I can go in those?" Vortex was cheap—surely he wouldn't spring for privacy.

"I—I guess so. You know, if you promise not to, like, interrupt and stuff."

"Last thing on my mind." Only thing he'd interrupt is if he DID find Vortex.

****

Onslaught hated the Organic Room; he decided that immediately. Too hot, too green. Too…full of weird smells. And bright colors. Flowers the size of his head with stamens bigger than—well, he wasn't a mech to get jealous of what a flower was packing, but if he was, he'd've been pretty jealous. Some mechs apparently got off on all that organic gunk. Got off figuratively AND literally, he would be ashamed to have to report. Thankfully, this little detail would have to be reported to no one. As long as he found Vortex.

Vortex, at least—a small blessing—didn't have a kink for the organic. Nor did he apparently have a thing for crystals. Pink, odd shapes, glowing and pulsating to their own weird beat, they covered the floors and ceiling of the Crystal Room (wow, General Strika really went out on a limb with these creative names, didn't she?) Useless things, forming irregularly shaped alcoves in which, apparently, lascivious acts ensued. At least from what he witnessed. He stalked around the perimeter of the room, peering into the dark nooks whenever he heard grunting, but didn't see anything like the blue-green of Moonracer's armor, or Vortex's stolid grey.

He glowered as he left at a group of rowdy Autobots, overcharged to the point of barely being able to stand, who were also peering into the alcoves, but with less pure intent. Dammit. Onslaught was looking for someone. He was not here to gape.

Though the Crystal Room did make him feel kind of funny. Sort of tingly. Especially in his pelvic plating. He chalked it up to a piezoelectric resonance, but left the Crystal Room much faster than he'd come in. One last room to check, the Baths. He braced himself for another tacky bit of decadence. He was a simple mech, spartan. All this…froufrou was an affront to his sensibilities. Lacy undercurtains. Heavy gold tassels on the tie backs. Plush velvet cushions piled everywhere. Even the floor wasn't a proper easy-to-hose rubber, but cerametal tiles in intricate little patterns. Luxury? Waste.

He set his expectations low for the baths. Even so, he was disappointed. He was grateful, at least, that the sound of the falling water drowned out most of the sounds of…lewdness. That had NOT been the case in the Crystal Room, where the moaning and whimpering and the steady rhythm of thrusting had reverberated around the chamber. Must be why that room made him feel a little…odd.

Oh dear PRIMUS. He blanked his visor for several kliks, trying desperately to engage an active memory purge. One of the Autobots he recognized from briefings during the war as Warpath, getting his main chest gun…oh, that is not how it is supposed to go. Spike A into Valve B. These Autobots needed some instructions. He turned, a little afraid at what perverted horror would affront him next.

He jumped back. An Autobot was less than a handspan away. He recognized him as one of the ones gawping in the Crystal Room. He could smell the high grade on the Autobot's breath. Even if he couldn't, the Autobot's overcharged status was pretty evident in the skewed gold fairings on his back, and the pink droplets dribbled down his chest, over his Autobot logo set in some ridiculously gaudy gold flame paint job.

"Can I help you?" Onslaught said, stiffly.

"You." The Autobot poked at his chassis with one clumsy finger. He was aiming for Onslaught's Decepticon logo, but ended up hitting the top of his winch. "You're a Decepticle, Despicticon, Des—oh, frag. One of them."

"Yes." Onslaught hated dealing with drunks. He stepped to one side, to get around the teetering Autobot, and, hopefully, find Vortex. Who would suffer, immensely, for this.

But the Autobot wasn't done with him. He grabbed at Onslaught's arm. "You're up there, aren't you? High grade. Important."

"During the war," Onslaught responded, flatly. Go away. Leave me alone. "War's over."

"An' don't I know it!" the Autobot said, slapping Onslaught on the shoulder in a fraternal gesture. Onslaught glowered. The hand on his arm began moving, exploring. "Heeeeyyyy you're kinda cute."

"You," Onslaught said, his backstruts stiffening in outrage, "are overcharged. It is affecting your better judgment." And your good taste. Onslaught did not have any illusions about his handsome-quotient. He was a warrior. You didn't do that for very long without getting some ugly scars. Vanity was for the weak. And for those who could use their looks to their advantage. Like Barricade. He pried the Autobot's fingers off his arm.

"Come on, now," the Autobot said, merely grabbing him with his other hand, "Don't be like that, hottie."

What?! "I think you must be mistaking me for someone else," he said. The strange feeling from the Crystal Room was back. The Autobot must somehow be carrying the charge of the crystals with him.

"No, don't think so. Followed you down from the Crystal Room. Sooooo obvious you need to get laid."

"I need no such thing!" He kept trying to pull away from the Autobot, but the damn thing was like a cybersquid: he'd move one hand and the other would grab him.

"Shyeah."

"Really," Onslaught said, feeling a little desperate. "You are making a mistake."

"Nope." The Autobot wobbled on his feet, clinging to Onslaught's shoulder armor for balance. "Onslaught, right? Hot and smart. Jus' like me."

Onslaught looked around, desperately. Where the frag was Lugnut when you needed him? He could cause a scene, but this was delicate—he couldn't afford, for his own reasons, to have the slightest taint of anti-Autobot sentiment on him. If he appeared as the result of an interfaction incident, no matter how small…it would ruin things.

"I-I'm very flattered you think so highly of me," Onslaught began, unsteadily. Back up. Tactical retreat, he decided. He felt his feet splash into the water. The damn 'bot followed him.

"Name's Rodimus. You've heard of me."

Actually, no. And what stupid name. "Pleased to meet you," he said, retreating another step. The warm water splashed up to his knees.

"Come on, sweetness," Rodimus said, running his hands down Onslaught's larger chassis. "I can show you a good time."

"I've, uh, seen enough good times here tonight to last me a while, thank you." Another step. Either Autobots were terminally rude, or this one was stupid.

"Naaaaaah," Rodimus said, his hands locking behind Onslaught's head. "Need to get a little closer to the action." Before Onslaught could react, even to deploy his battlemask, the Autobot pulled him into a sloppy kiss. Onslaught threw his hands out, helplessly. This was unacceptable! This was unprofessional! This was…causing that electric tingle in his pelvic plating to grow worse.

He seized the smaller mech by the gold-colored wings and jerked him away, gratified when he landed with a loud splash on his aft. Some things were just not to be tolerated. "I do not mean," he said, regally, "to be rude, Autobot."

"Rodimus, baby," the Autobot said, pushing himself to his feet. Water dripped off his armor. "And coolness. I like it rough, too." He lunged at Onslaught, who ducked low enough to catch Rodimus's midsection with his shoulder. Onslaught stood up, tossing Rodimus head first into the water again.

Rodimus came up, spluttering, laughing. He spun and grabbed Onslaught's knees, taking him to the ground in another splash.

"Dirty boy, aren't you," Rodimus giggled, clambering over Onslaught's supine frame. "How 'bout we getcha dirtier, then clean you up?" His hands stroked at Onslaught's pelvic armor.

"Get off me," Onslaught said, weakly.

"Oh, you don't want me to touch you? Not even a little bit? Not even…here?" The Autobot snapped open the panel, rubbing waterslicked fingers over Onslaught's spike cover.

"Gguuuuuuunh!" Onslaught tried to twist away, swinging one arm wildly to punch Rodimus in the face. He didn't care any more if it caused a scene. It would be an improvement on the scene he was already involved in. To be taken like this. In public. By an AUTOBOT! "Stop it," he gasped.

"Make me." Rodimus squeezed the spike, tapping on the top sensor nodes with one finger. "Make me, Decepticon. Face it. We won the war. We win…everything."

Now, that was just too much. Onslaught heaved himself upward, launching himself at the arrogant little cog of an Autobot, shoving him hard by the shoulders under the water. Rodimus laughed, squirming his hips against Onslaught's, his pelvic plating rubbing against the already pressurized spike. Onslaught gasped.

"You do not win," he said, angrily. "You win nothing. You got lucky, that's all." He reached down to brace the Autobot's hips so he could manage—somehow—to secure his spike where it wouldn't get in the way. Rodimus thrashed, and they tumbled over each other for a desperate few minutes, coming to rest with Onslaught flat on his back, arms pinned, the Autobot planted firmly on his spike.

"Yeah," Rodimus said, grinning cheekily down at him. "We get lucky. A lot." He began twisting his hips in a small arc, his sensor nodes swirling against Onslaught's spike. Onslaught's entire frame trembled, long-shut-down systems booting up slowly, sending waves of unfamiliar sensation over him.

He growled, and tossed the Autobot off him with a buck of his hips, feet braced against the pool's bottom. He seized the Autobot by one of his silly golden wings, his other hand grabbing the other mech's hip, driving himself into the Autobot from behind.

"Sneak attack!" Rodimus gasped, laughing. "Just like a 'con!"

"This," Onslaught muttered "What you wanted, huh? Wanted a 'con?" He dug his fingers into the mech's shoulder,

"Primus, yeah, hottie."

"Stop," Onslaught thrust in, hard, with each word, "Calling. Me. That." He felt the Autobot writhe against him, the valve clutching in what he vaguely remembered was an overload. His own systems, rusty from disuse, weren't ready yet. And, he decided, he wasn't quite done with the Autobot. He reached and grabbed the Autobot's forearms, wrapping his larger hands around the exhaust pipes, pinning against the small of Rodimus's back, the Autobot's face against the bottom of the pool. Like to see him backtalk now, Onslaught thought. Using the arms as leverage, he pounded against the Autobot's hips until his systems, finally, FINALLY, shot to an overload. The flow of transfluid down his spike almost scalded.

His whole body quivered. He released his grip on the Autobot's forearms, thrusting him away from him. The Autobot collapsed on his side, half underwater, silvery transfluid dilute and streaming from his valve. Onslaught dropped back to kneel on his heels, tilting his head back into the fall of water, still struggling to get his systems under control. Water steamed off his external heat sinks.

"Well." Onslaught jumped as he heard the voice, his optics struggling to refocus. Vortex. NOW? "Put on quite a show for us," Vortex said, grinning.

"Had to…," Onslaught gasped, his cooling ventilation still ragged, "put him…in his place." Uppity Autobot. In front of him, he heard the sloshing of Rodimus struggling to his feet.

"Oh yeah," Vortex said. "I'm totally sure he learned his lesson." Behind him, Moonracer giggled, a high light sound that lit Onslaught up with shame. Behaving like that, he had, and in front of a femme. He was a warrior, yes, and warriors were not tuned to the finer graces, but he still knew how to act in front of a lady. And that…was not it. He tucked his spike away, reflexively.

Moonracer's small hands grabbed him by the arm, helping him to his feet. He groaned. Feeling his age, every vorn of it; feeling his crassness and size against Moonracer's delicate frame and motions. Vortex was saying something to the Autobot, helping him to his feet.

Vortex came back, grinning. "Got you a comm freq, Commander. You know, in case you want to put him in his place again."

Onslaught glared. "Apparently I need to put you in YOUR place, Vortex," he growled.

Moonracer wrapped her arms around his forearm's bulk. "Can I watch?"


	11. Tourist

_A/N: Oki doki, hope you like some smexin with your side of humour. :P _

**Tourist -** By Optimus Bob

"Are you sure about this Jazz?"

"Sure am Optimus, this is just what you need." Jazz quickly grabbed Optimus's hand and pulled him along, laughing lightly.

"I don't know Jazz; it's really not my scene."

"You have a scene?" Jazz smirked at the mech lagging behind him, who scowled at his fond dig. "Don't know 'til you try." He continued cheerfully. He cast a sidelong look at Optimus as they approached The Inamorato.

"Primus Optimus, no need to look so worried. This place is groovy. Perfect spot for a 'bot to kick back and relax."

Optimus gave Jazz a dubious glance. The two large bouncers eyed them as they approached. Tugging Jazz back sharply Optimus hissed in his audio. "That's Lugnut!"

"Yeah he works here. Doorman duty." Jazz replied casually, laughing at the concern crossing Optimus's face. He patted the larger mech's arm lightly. "Chill boss, there's no war here, don't be turning into SM on me now."

Optimus followed Jazz's lead nervously, matching the looks he was receiving from the two 'con bouncers, trying to appear confident even if right now he didn't feel it.

Jazz was already mingling when Optimus stepped inside. It was as if he belonged there. The music, the social atmosphere and –

"Prowl!"

Optimus took a double take as Jazz called out to his fellow ninja. Prowl? What in Primus's name was he doing here? Optimus ventured further inside stepping out of the way of an overcharged couple, completely into each other, giggling as they made their way up the stairs.

Jazz's distinct voice filtered back to his audios. "Look who's decided to relax for a change."

"How did you persuade him?" Prowl questioned in genuine surprise as Jazz guided him towards the stunned mech.

"I'm still working on it." He chuckled quietly.

Optimus realised he was staring as Jazz and Prowl approached. A tiny, barely even usable, red satin apron was tied around Prowl's waist, emphasising his curves as he walked. Optimus snapped his mouth shut forcing his optics up to Prowl's face. "Uh... hi Prowl. I wasn't expecting to see you here. You umm... you look... different." He gave him a weak smile, entirely unsure of why he'd just commented on Prowl's appearance, wondering once again why he'd agreed to this little outing.

"Oh this?" Prowl fingered the apron absently. "Its uniform, supposed to be flattering." He blushed ever so slightly and returned Optimus's small smile. "Personally I don't see the appeal." He spoke casually as if it was the most natural thing in the world to be found wearing a satin red apron that had very little use other than to look sexy.

Optimus felt himself flushing as his optics drifted once more the slip of material. "It... looks nice." He answered awkwardly a hand rubbing the back of his neck. Prowl raised a brow in faint amusement. "I'll get you both a drink." He stated, giving Jazz a sly smirk as he headed back to the bar.

Jazz stood next to Optimus watching him, watch Prowl leave. "Don't stare at his aft; he gets a little touchy about it." He chuckled giving Optimus a friendly nudge. The mech recoiled as if stung. "I wasn't..."

"Mmhmm." Jazz folded his arms across his chest, his smirk growing wider.

Optimus sighed. "He doesn't have to get us drinks." He frowned eager to change the subject.

"He kinda does OP, he's the bartender."

"What? When...? How? This IS Prowl we're talking about?"

Jazz laughed out loud at his confusion. "Come on OP let's find a seat before you fall over."

****

Ramjet joined his twin on the balcony. "Have you found someone new to fawn over?"

"Oh yes." Sunstorm grinned emphatically. "Our most formidable adversary Optimus Prime just walked in, along with that fabulous ninja, who paid us that wonderful amount of credits earlier."

Ramjet followed his gaze down onto the floor below as Jazz led a wide eyed Optimus to a comfy area off to one side of the room, their position obscured by the swishing veils of fabric hanging from the ceiling.

"Oh isn't he just precious." Ramjet drawled, resting his elbow on the balcony rail, head tipped slightly in his palm.

"Oh you're only jealous that my attentions are distracted from your more than satisfying company." Sunstorm pushed off the balcony smiling widely at his twin. "I am sure they would relish such wonderful company as yours."

"Flattery will get you nowhere." Ramjet grinned following the seeker down the stairs.

****

Jazz glanced up from his high grade when the veils shifted revealing the golden seeker smiling widely at him.

"Ramjet?"

"Sunstorm, although you'd be forgiven for thinking I was that superior lying clone." He slid into a free seat beside Jazz.

"I'm not a liar!" Ramjet retorted slinking his slender form next to Optimus, who stiffened visibly as the seeker's wing rested behind his shoulder. "We would simply love to join you." He continued, grinning at Optimus who was now trying very hard to shift subtly out of reach from the wandering hands of the jet.

"Oh yes, being in the company of mechs such as yourselves simply warms my spark. You must allow us to bask in your Autobot nobility." Sunstorm agreed whole heartedly, his excitement almost making up for his twin clone's insincerity.

"Umm... Jazz?" Optimus stammered slightly, batting away the creeping advances of the seeker sidling up to him.

"Well, it won't do any harm will it OP? I don't see why you both can't join us for some high grade." Jazz was cheerful and friendly as always, much to Optimus's growing consternation.

"Uhh... Jazz... I... hey!"

Optimus jumped as Ramjet withdrew his hands slowly a look of pure innocence on his face. "What? I didn't do anything."

"Jazz what sort of place have you brought me to?"

"Awww relax OP, they're just here to show us a good time, can you dig it?"

"No I don't... stop that! Don't think I can dig it." He leaned over the table dropping his voice. "He keeps touching me!"

Jazz smirked, "Oh, I see." He drew back, sipping some more high grade. "Yer both can join us as long as touchy, feely over there lays off the boss bot. He's a bit low so lay off the pressure man."

"Jazz!" Optimus hissed through gritted denta, his optics wary of the grinning seeker beside him.

"Oh I promise to lay off him." Ramjet crooned, his optics widening and brightening as he sipped some of Optimus's high grade.

"Oh that's settled then." Sunstorm clapped his hands together gleefully. Raising his voice to an almost tuneful singsong he waved across at the bar to where Prowl was busy mixing cocktails.

"Oh exalted barkeep... would you please grace us with your enigmatic presence and fetch us some of your more wonderful concoctions?" He cast a sickeningly sweet smile at Prowl – ignoring Jazz's sniggers of amusement at Optimus's awkward rejections of Ramjet - who raised an orbital ridge before nodding his acknowledgement.

Optimus sat ram rod straight in his seat, struggling against the satin cushions as his aft kept sliding down. He was trying his best to ignore Ramjet, looking distinctly flushed as he gulped down his second cube of high grade, wishing that it would calm his irrational nervousness around the two 'cons. He shuttered his optics as the smooth liquid slipped down his throat, spreading a pleasant warmth across his chest.

"Whoa... slow down there OP." Jazz grinned at him, the seeker draped over his shoulders gently teasing his neck with tapered fingers. "We got all night, no need to rush things. You need to tell me what's been eatin' at yer recently."

Optimus pushed the empty cube back onto the table, allowing Ramjet's fingers to trail across his arm briefly. "Nothing's been bothering me. I've just been busy."

"Oh yeah? Doin' what?"

"You know... stuff... Prime... stuff..."

"Oh I'm interested, you really must share more." Ramjet drawled, sipping his own high grade earning a scowl for his trouble.

Jazz laughed again, peeling himself away from the attentive seeker, he leaned closer to Optimus. "Come on Optimus, I've done this so you can chill, SM ain't here to be raggin' on yer back. You need a break; first step is lettin' out what's wrong."

Optimus smirked. "Is that some kind of ninja teaching?"

Jazz sat back. "Nah, it's all me." He finished his cube. "But if yer don't want ter tell me, that's cool." He got out of his seat, snatching Optimus's cube before he could protest. "I'm off to see what Prowl can cook up with his wicked cocktail makin' skills. I'll be right back."

"Jazz you can't leave me... here..." Optimus's optics widened with discomfort as the two seekers slid closer to his stiff frame.

"Don't worry OP; the twins will take good care o' yer while I'm gone." He winked slyly before disappearing past the shimmering veil.

Optimus flashed a nervous grin towards the seekers who were both now leaning on their hands leering up at him mischievously. "Sooo... you work here?" He internally winced at his attempt at small talk.

The two jets chuckled. "It's a very demanding job." Ramjet answered, his expression telling him it was anything but.

"We enjoy lavishing attention on heroic Autobots like yourself though." Sunstorm continued, sliding ever closer to the awkward mech.

"Oh I wouldn't say heroic... really... I just do my job..."

"As do we... and I would say heroic... and brave..." Sunstorm walked his slender fingers up Optimus's arm slowly, seductively.

"...strong... and attractive..." Ramjet added with a faint snigger.

"You're not helping." Sunstorm hissed lightly.

"What? I'm not here to help."

"We'd love to show you our appreciation for sharing your magnificent company with us..." Sunstorm carried on, his face closer to Optimus's audios now so much so that he could feel the faint breeze of warm air as the jet exhaled.

"You would huh...?" Optimus murmured as the seeker drew closer his fingers playing along wires in Optimus's neck.

"We would..." The jet purred seductively, the low vibrations sending tingles through Optimus's frame, mixing with the already pleasant haze of high grade fogging his senses. Optimus gulped involuntarily as Sunstorm crept his hand around the back of his neck, fingers sliding up his helm, brushing lightly over his finials. Optimus let out a soft sigh at the soft sensation dipping his head slightly.

"Oh yes, we've always wanted to seduce a Prime." Ramjet added his sharp claws caressing across Optimus's chest.

"Seduce?" Optimus repeated sleepily, as Sunstorm continued his caress of his ear finial.

"Mmhmm..." The jet leaned closer as Optimus optics flickered shut with relaxation at the gentle massage. Ramjet copied his twin, trailing his fingers up the opposite finial, grinning as Optimus let out a small; "-Oh.-" They lulled the red and blue mech into a slouched position, their free hands, stroking lightly along seams in his chassis.

"Started without me I see." Jazz grinned placing four full cubes on the table.

"Jazz!" Optimus's optics snapped open, he shot up to sitting, ignoring the groans from the seekers. "I don't know what came over me... I..."

"He asked us to." Ramjet interrupted.

"I did not!" Optimus retorted optics wide.

"Calm down OP, yer haven't done anything wrong. This is what it's all about." He smiled broadly, sliding the full cube to Optimus.

"I don't know if I should." Optimus fidgeted, trying to ignore the tingling that resulted from having his finials stroked.

"You should, and yer goin' to... on me." Jazz put his feet up casually. Cube in one hand, his free hand trailing along Sunstorm's wing, making the seeker keen softly and lean back into his touches.

Optimus watched Jazz's subtle strokes along the long wing; his capacitor was thumping hard at almost being caught in a compromising position. How had he let himself get that way in the first place? Grabbing his cube, he took a few mouthfuls, aware that the other seeker was watching him closely; his tapered fingers tickling along his upper thigh, making him twitch nervously every so often.

The high grade had probably been a bad idea. Optimus thought as he felt the growing haze fog over his logic circuits. He smiled absently to himself, his optics still on Jazz helping the seeker relax. His systems felt warm, comfortable. He sank down into the deep cushion enjoying the taste of the energon, ok so this wasn't so bad. Was it? As long as he kept an eye on the seeker to his right, who seemed engrossed in his Autobot symbol on his shoulder, everything would be fine. He could relax and hey what the...?

Optimus frowned at the seeker who peered up at him, his glossa still protruding from his mouth leaving a damp smear where he'd licked the wires in his shoulder. "What are you doing?" He asked not realising his vocals were ever so slightly slurred.

Ramjet grinned. "Me? Nothing... Just sat here minding my own business."

"Did you just lick me?" Optimus felt he should probably be more shocked by this, but the high grade had a nice dampening effect on his senses.

"You complaining OP?" Jazz cut in making sure he was looking at him before pulling Sunstorm into a playful kiss.

Optimus's mouth fell open at the sight, the warm pleasant tingling changing to a growing heat deep within his circuitry as Jazz's glossa teased over Sunstorm's lips, his jaw, his neck. The seeker let out a giggle and a moan as Jazz nipped wires along his shoulder, his hands still working the wings slowly. Optimus's optics were wide in disbelief when Jazz peered up at him.

"Oh he doesn't need help at all." Ramjet grinned. Jazz returned his grin, a mischievous glint in his optics. He proceeded to crawl over Sunstorm on his hands and knees, backing Optimus into the wall as he straddled his lap.

"Yer relaxed yet OP?" He slurred lazily, his blunt fingers tracing lines along his wind shield.

"I... umm... I'm f... fine..." Optimus's voice squeaked as Jazz dug into the pelvic plating, massaging the sensory nodes he found.

"Do yer want to feel completely relaxed?" He teased; his face close to Optimus's, smiling at the hitched intakes of the larger mech.

"I umm... ah mmmm..." Optimus's words failed him as Jazz leaned closer, pressing his slight frame against the red and blue armour. He resorted to a tiny nod, his optics locked with Jazz's.

"Close yer optics." Jazz purred deeply, the twins were watching eagerly, Ramjet licking his lips as Jazz pressed his lips against Optimus.

"Mmpphff." Optimus moaned in surprise as hot lips pressed against his own, a glossa urging him to part them. He nervously obliged letting the glossa dip into his mouth, caress his oral plating, he tentatively reached out with his own glossa, the taste of high grade sweetening the sensation as he moaned once more and pushed more passionately into the tender kiss.

Jazz broke the moment, eliciting a mewl of disappointment from the close to overcharged Optimus. He was smiling eagerly as Optimus let out a sigh of contentment.

"That about did it." Jazz laughed softly, dipping his head into the crook of Optimus's neck to nip at exposed wires, his hands running up the warm thighs slowly as Optimus squirmed a little beneath him. Jazz laughed as the seekers joined him, Sunstorm running his hands down his back, glossa dipping into his throat, letting out a soft hum sending pleasurable vibrations through sensitive wiring. Ramjet's hands shot to Optimus's finials squeezing them a little before scraping his sharp fingers down their length.

Optimus let out a gasp at the firm touch from the seeker, the tingling had filled every inch of his circuitry, the fuzzy warmth of over charge complimented their ministrations wonderfully, he felt a charge growing along his circuits and couldn't help but let out a surprised laugh and moan as he felt a glossa tickling his audios, dragging up the full length of one his finials. His optics opened and fell onto the white mech in front of him; he hadn't even registered when Jazz had removed his interface cover all he could think of now was that tight grip around his spike as Jazz's hand tugged and stroked his length slowly, so slowly.

"Jazz..." He let out a whisper, his cooling systems whirring into life as the already soaring heat peaked throughout his body. He stared at Jazz in confusion as the ninja smiled at him giving him a sly wink before sliding down between his legs. The grip was replaced by a hot, wet glossa a tight mouth closing round his spike.

His mouth fell open in surprise and arousal as the white head bobbed up and down on his spike, taking in his full length he whimpered as the tip brushed against the back of Jazz's throat. Jazz hummed quietly, the steady vibrations caused Optimus to grip onto the cushion tightly as the warm ache exploded through his circuits driving his hips upwards into the feeling.

"Nnnhhh... Jazz... more..." He breathed feeling the charge along his spike getting stronger, his head dropped back coming to rest on Ramjet's wing his mouth parted as he panted heavily. The seeker leaned over and absorbed his loud moans of overload with a deep lustful kiss. Jazz pulled back, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

"OooOOHH... you're wonderful... you have him so relaxed now..." Sunstorm murmured into his audio seductively teasing his chest with one finger.

"I have had the most success." Ramjet sneered at his twin licking his lips once more.

"I say we take this somewhere more private... what do you say OP?"

Optimus's optics drifted lazily back to Jazz a dreamy smile on his lips. "I'll do whatever you want..." He slurred, hiccupping a little as the high grade took over his systems. Jazz laughed. "Oh I hope so." The seekers each supported Optimus's arms, half carrying, half walking the large mech up the stairs.

Jazz winked at Prowl as they disappeared onto the balcony, the black and gold mech merely rolled his optics returning his attentions to his work, there was no mistaking the obvious smirk on his lips.

****

Optimus found himself falling onto something soft; cool to the touch, sensual. He cried out loud with surprise as eager, sharp fingers began caressing every inch of his body, lips pressing into seams, along sensory nodes. He wriggled and moaned as the playful touches threatened to drive him into another overload.

Jazz crept between Optimus's thighs, taking in the sight of his exposed, quivering valve. Lubricant smearing his white inner thighs. Jazz bit his lower lip, bringing up his hand he circled the valve once, watching Optimus squirm with pleasure. He pushed two fingers deep inside mouth parting at the wanton groan that escaped Optimus's vocaliser.

The twins continued their ministrations along each other, as they kissed and pawed over the large mech writhing between them. Jazz thrust his fingers into the valve, loving every moan and gasp from Optimus's normally reserved mouth.

The two seekers pinned down Optimus's arms at each side, kissing along his finials, his audio as Jazz climbed a top of the red chassis. He spread Optimus's legs further apart as he released his own hard spike, pre-fluid dribbled from the end in eager anticipation. Lying flush to Optimus's panting, squirming frame, he thrust his hips firmly, his spike slipping into the tight, well lubricated valve. It spasmed around his thick length as he pushed it further inside.

Optimus arched his back as the thick spike entered him, stretching his valve. He let out a long low moan as the ache of fullness travelled from his valve up through his circuits sending shivers of excitement and pleasure washing down his frame. His fists clenched, desperate to grab hold of something. The seekers' glossa tickled and teased his finials, his sensory nodes along his neck. Jazz's thrusts were long, deep and slow, each one driving into the deepest part of his valve. He dared to open his optics; Jazz's face was a picture of pleasure before his own, optics half lidded, mouth open in heavy pants. Primus it was the hottest thing he'd ever seen.

"Uuunnngghh... Jazz... harder..."

"Yeah? Yer sure you can take it...?" Jazz teased groaning as he pushed even deeper into the clenching valve.

"Yessss... please... OooOOHH... feels so good..."

The two seekers chuckled as Jazz drew back to his knees, keeping the tip of his spike inside the valve.

"Keep him there." He grinned, hands gripping Optimus's knees, raising his legs spreading them further apart.

"Wouldn't want him anywhere else." Ramjet groaned biting down into Optimus's neck, enjoying the resulting yelp.

"Oh nooo... we like him just like this." Sunstorm agreed sharp fingers scraping along his grill.

Jazz began thrusting hard into the valve, bracing himself against Optimus's knees he pushed in as deep as he could go and picked up a steady relaxed, almost lazy pace. Enjoying every whimper, every moan, every plead for 'faster' and 'more'. He could watch Optimus in the throes of interfacing all day. His own overload was building fast. He shook with effort as he increased his pace, thrusting harder into the slick valve.

The seekers moaned as Optimus bucked, Jazz cried out sharply, overloading tensing every joint in his frame as he continued to pump his hips into Optimus, his transfluid seeping out of the valve with each deep thrust. He panted as Optimus bit his lip hard a silent moan escaping his lips as his face contorted with pleasure as he overloaded hard.

The seekers grinned as Jazz pulled away. Optimus lay on the bed a blissful expression on his face. Jazz leaned over and pressed a light kiss on his mouth. Jazz yelped as strong arms suddenly engulfed him spinning him onto his back pinning him to the soft sheets.

Optimus breathed down on him, careful not to press too much of his weight onto the slender ninja. "My turn." He growled much to Jazz's delight. His optics drifted down to Optimus's already hard spike.

"Oh yeah..."

It didn't take long for Jazz to overload once more, Optimus had spiked him hard and fast, making him scream through his next overload. He barely registered the pleasurable screams from the seekers as they overloaded either side of the two mechs, their transfluid spurting out over their frames.

He laughed as Sunstorm's face replaced Optimus's. "We want your glorious spikes inside of us." He grinned. "Both of you."

Optimus was too far gone into his own lust to argue as the twins proceeded to top both mechs, riding their spikes effortlessly. Their screeches filled the room as the four mechs lost themselves to the moment.

****

The next morning Optimus opened his optics, a splitting pain filled his cortex, he tried to move. A weight was pressing into him. Leaning up, he couldn't help but smile as the two jets lay snuggled either side of him, Jazz lying on his chest. His frame was sticky with dried fluid and the room smelled of sex. Optimus's head fell back against the soft pillow. The aftermath of overcharge wreaking havoc on his senses with each movement. The two jets curled into him tighter as he shifted slightly, resigning himself to the comfort of the three mechs around him, he fell back into recharge feeling more relaxed than he had since his days before the academy.


	12. Love & War Wounds

_A/N: This story references events in the TFA episode: Thrill of the Hunt. Although I don't think the TFA writers ever intended it to be taken to this level. 0.0_

_Disclaimer: All of Lockdown's nicknames for Ratchet are taken directly from the super-cool All Spark Almanac. IDW should pay me for advertising their goods. =D_

_Enjoy!  
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_**Love & War Wounds** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

Ratchet never would have agreed to use Inamorato as the venue for his weekly poker game had he known what was going to happen. He wasn't fond of the idea in the first place but Rodimus, Cliffjumper and Brawn insisted they play there. The old bot wasn't averse to the place for what it represented. He respected that it encouraged the intermingling between factions. That was something he believed was essential to keep the trend of peace alive on Cybertron. He wasn't a fan of witnessing perverted mischief disguised as exotic escapism, but who was he to cast judgment on how others chose to entertain themselves. As long as it didn't bother him or harm his friends, he had no place to protest it. The only reason it bothered the medic to visit Inamorato was for the painful fact that it tore a particular candy stripe femme from his side; a femme he once believed to be the sweetest and purest thing on four wheels.

Arcee, in her own mind, was still sweet and pure. She just reserved sweet for special occasions and had a different definition of pure than most did. She believed purity came from knowing her spark and following her instincts, regardless of how the moral majority regarded her choice of lifestyle. She found more fulfillment with Inamorato than anything she had ever done, including school teaching. She didn't regret a single day since she left Iacon and joined Strika in a business partnership. Life was, for the most part, good. Everyday had something new in store and she enjoyed the promise of each new day. Well, almost. As of late, every poker night would confront the madam with the one thing her business prowess couldn't conquer: a broken spark.

Arcee liked to oversee during business hours. She wanted to be on the pulse of Inamorato's happenings; to mingle the way her customers did. Each night she would choose a different spot to observe from, usually a table strategically centered among the patrons where she could get a small piece of every pie of conversation. Poker night was different. She chose the spot farthest from the regular gathering of players, which was a stool at the bar. Prowl was always there to provide a steady flow of her favorite comfort drink and offer his pleasant small talk whenever she most needed a distraction.

"You realize you can talk to him." Prowl offered in his logical tone. Apparently her bartender wasn't feeling the small talk tonight. "Ratchet is not an unreasonable bot." He topped a brightly-colored drink with a pink flower and slid it in front of her.

Arcee sighed as she cupped her delicate fingers around the glass. She took a sip and raised a skeptical brow to the bartender. "Easy for you to say. Have you ever interfaced with him?" Prowl only responded with an insulted huff. "I didn't think so." she continued, sipping her elixir again and dimming her optics as the sweetness soothed her taste sensors. "But I'm sure he'd be perfectly reasonable if you'd spike his drinks with--"

"I will do no such thing" interrupted Prowl. "There has been too much of that going on." Arcee leaned back, rolling her optics and regretting her suggestion as it just paved the way for a Cyber Ninja lecture of morality. "I am amazed you allow the continuation of such abominable behavior in what is supposed to be a high class establishment. If our Magnus had any decency, and wasn't himself a participant of the perversions, this place would be shut down for its advocacy of illegal substances."

Prowl began his concoction of the poker players' usuals, impartial to the cherry red lips sneering at him. "Are those for Rod's group?" Arcee questioned.

"Yes, and I'm not taking my eye off Ratchet's drink as long as you're sitting here."

Arcee crossed her arms and held tight to her sneer. "Why are you in such a good mood tonight?"

"Because," he retorted confidently "in spite of your obvious enjoyment at seeing me miserable, I have learned to gain encouragement from what little blessings are offered to me."

"What kind of blessings?" she inquired curiously.

Prowl glanced at the empty dance floor with a smirk. "It is Chromia's night off."

Arcee laughed, nearly feeling sorry for him. When she originally locked him into his contract, she never intended the poor kid to be subjected to so much debauchery in such a short period of time. How was she supposed to know he attracted all the devious bots? Part of her wanted to set him free, but oddly enough, her instincts told her to keep him around. He brought a strong sense of nobility to the place, not to mention some serious luxury to the optics. It wouldn't be the same without him and she hoped one day, he would learn to appreciate the life experience all this would bring. At least that was a good enough justification to keep her from feeling guilty for the time being.

"Those for my crew?" sang Rodimus Prime as he strutted to the bar.

"Of course" Prowl answered flatly as he placed the last of the four drinks on a tray.

"Swell" chucked the flamed adorned prime. He looks over Arcee with a valiant grin. "Evenin' m'lady. How's the night treating ya?"

Arcee replied with a groan. "Just the usual at this point of the week…my day goes perfectly fine until you lot show up." Rodimus sat down on the stool next to her. He glanced to his comrades across the room then turned back to her.

"Ol' bot still giving you the cold shoulder?" he sympathized. Arcee dropped her head, taking a long sip of her drink. "Aw sweetheart, I'm sorry." He rested his hand on her knee. "But he'll come around…just needs a little reminder of what he's missing." Arcee mulled over his words a moment then peered up to her old flame, the side of her lips attempting a smirk. Rodimus picked up right away on her slight shift of mood. "If I'm not mistaken, and I usually am not, I see a plan hatching in those lovely optics of yours."

"Possibly" she flirted, smile now fully formed on her face. She set her drink down and stood up, grabbing both of Rodimus's hands. "Would it be juvenile of me to want to make Ratchet jealous?"

"Yes" replied the bartender sternly. Arcee and Rodimus ignored him.

"No" smirked Rodimus as he eyeballed Arcee head to toe. "Not at all." Rodimus stood up, placing his hand at the small of her back and guiding her to the dance floor.

"Skywarp" Arcee spoke into her comm. "Turn up the mu-- no…Skywarp, no. You'll be fine, trust me." Rodimus gave the madam a strange look as she continued with the apparently difficult simple request. "No, honey, it won't…just please turn the music up a notch, okay? Okay, thank you."

"Hard to find good help these days, eh?" Rodimus teased as he spun her around and pulled her close to him. He grabbed hold of her hips and pressed his pelvic plating into hers.

"He's just…" Arcee giggled "new." She snaked her arms along his sides, sending one up his back and the other resting with a squeeze on his aft. The music filled the room. It was an oldie, one the pair knew fondly from their pre-war days. They swayed and laughed and pawed at each other, not even trying to keep in time to the rhythm. Their hips gyrated in a feeble attempt at syncopation. Arcee was moving artfully but Rodimus had no concept of style. Dry 'facin with the occasional half turn was probably the best description for their attempts at a partner dance.

Meanwhile, at the poker table, Ratchet sat with his back to the main room, totally oblivious the efforts being made on his behalf. Brawn and Cliffjumper sat across from him, Brawn's arm leaning on the back of the scrappy red bot's chair. The pair was watching their prime and the madam, thoroughly entertained. Ratchet remained focused on his cards, practicing his best poker face, which required very little practice. It didn't take long for his annoyance to surface though, given the extended absence of their fourth player and the tray of drinks.

"What in the All Spark is takin' him so long?" Ratchet twisted around and immediately locked optics onto the spectacle. "What the…" he turned back around with a groan, crossing him arms over his chest, attempting to regain his poker face. "Scrap this round, let's re-deal for three players."

Cliffjumper looked over the medic with skepticism. "You gonna let him do that to your femme?"

"She ain't mine." He collected the cards and averted his optics down. "She ain't anyone's femme but her own."

"Huh…well someone better tell that to Rod's hands." joked Cliffjumper. His continued to gawk at the pair, feeling his chassis warm by their blatant indecency. He turned to Brawn eyeing him over wantonly. "Can you do that to me later?"

Brawn looked upon his partner, his brow only slightly rising. "Do what…step all over your feet? I suppose I could if that's what you want."

"Not that you sarcastic slagger" the little scrapper glided his hand over Brawn's upper thigh; his fingers merely a twitch from his interface panel. "That grinding thing" he purred.

Brawn couldn't help break a little smile as he warmed to Cliffjumper's touch. "Oh I see…do what we usually do only draw it out longer than a nanoklik." He leaned in to kiss Cliffjumper, despite the scrapper's flirty cursing, but was distracted by Ratchet's irritated glare on them.

"Oh I'm sorry, is my card game inconveniencing you two?" growled the medibot.

Arcee sighed hopelessly as the prime continued to grind on her. "He's not even looking over" she complained. "Rodimus glanced to the table, furrowing his brow at the sight of Ratchet's back.

"Time to pull out the big guns" boasted the prime. He squatted down and wrapped his arms around her thighs, lifting her unevenly then aimlessly spinning them with no obvious plan or direction.

"What are you doing!?" she pleaded through laughter.

"I call that" he lowered her back to the floor, arms wrapped around her tiny waist "The Rod Special." He dropped her into a dip which wrenches a painful yelp from her.

"Rodimus!" she strained. "I'm not exactly a young bot anymore!" He pulled her back up, sporting a proud grin.

"Neither am I, m'lady" he announced while twirling her once. "Which is why we make this so hot!" He twirled her again, hardly giving her time to regain her footing from the last one.

"This is useless" she sighed. "Prowl was right. We're too old for these games."

Rodimus refused to give up. He backed off; optics locked wildly on her and began circling her like she was his prey. She just stood there, shoulders slumped, watching him with disinterest. She dared a glance to the poker table, hoping Ratchet kept his attention averted. She was surprised to see all three poker players casting a worried expression toward the door. She turned to see what the fuss was about then flinched when she found herself in the shadow of a tall piecemeal mech. Rodimus straightened up, beholding the intruder with a questioning stare.

"Mind if I cut in?" asked the mech, politely.

"Is that a joke?" challenged Rodimus as he stepped up next to Arcee.

"You see me laughin'?" he replied straight-faced.

Arcee planted her hand on her hips, refusing to be intimidated by the intruder. "Lockdown, what are you doing here? I know you can't afford anything we have to offer."

Lockdown surveyed the dance floor, regarding it with satisfaction, then slid his glance to the bar where Prowl stood with arms crossed and tiny mouth pinched bitterly. "Came to deliver a message" he shifted his attention back to Arcee "but havin' just witnessed the complete defiling' of a respectable art, I now know my real reason for bein' here."

Ratchet was well aware of Inamorato's 'Politics at the Door' policy, but some grudges weren't so easily cast aside. He locked his optics bitterly onto the bounty hunter and a pain began surfacing in his broken chevron. "If he even ventilates wrong near her, I'm gonna--"

"Not here Ratchet." Brawn warned. "This isn't his first visit and he's well aware of the policies." He tapped the medibot reassuringly on the arm. "Relax friend, she'll be okay. She can stand her ground."

Rodimus leaned into Arcee, keeping a fixed stare on Lockdown. "Tough guy here wants to dance with you. Whattaya make of that, sugar?"

"I think he's got some seriously fuzzy dice" retorted the femme as she sized up her former kidnapper. "But who am I to break my own policy?" She took one taunting step forward, her stern expression starting to crack with intrigue as she bored her glare into the tattooed face. "You have a music preference?"

"Anything in four-eight timing" Lockdown replied assuredly, taking a step toward her. Rodimus held his ground, sizing the bounty hunter up. Lockdown didn't bother giving the prime his attention beyond a single request. "Gonna give us some space here, Bojangles?"

Rodimus puffed his chest out and quirked his head with a little sass as he strolled of the dance floor. "I know an insult when I hear one. You're just lucky I don't know what that means."

Arcee rolled her optics at the prime then tapped her comm on. "Play track number seven, Skywarp" she ordered. She could hear the quivering on the other end of the line, but amazingly the music switched over without any complications.

Lockdown looked to floor, soaking the music in as he tapped his foot in time to the rhythm. He closed the gap between them, taking her waist in his hook and her right hand in his left hand. He led her into a basic, slow walking step.

Arcee let down her guard a notch, surprised by his genteel demeanor. His moves weren't anything fancy, nothing she couldn't keep up with, but certainly a welcome change from Rodimus's madness. "Are you here to pay off your debt?" she inquired sharply. He swooped her into a turn once they reached the end of the dance floor and repeated the basic synchronized walk back to where they started.

"Fraid not" he confessed, guiding her into her another turn. "Still broke." Each fluid movement whittled away at her defenses, inching her toward the brink of being impressed.

"You're pretty smooth. Where'd you learn this?" she inquired with a budding smile. He leaned into her, bending her into a slight dip and pulling her knee up with his hook.

"Eurythma" he replied, snapping her back up with quick precision, then guiding her into a half turn, his hook now wrapped around the front of her body. He led her into another set of graceful walking steps, his chest pressed flush to her door panels.

"Singing planet, right?" she said breathlessly, unable to hide her intrigue.

"Yep. Entire place is populated with organic bohemians." He spun her back to face him, now pressing her against him and pulling her leg up over his spiked hip. "Spent a few deca-cycles there once. Picked up on a few customs." He slid his leg out behind him, sinking into a pose, his coat tailed armor nearly skimming the floor. "Wouldn't mind taking Prowl there someday." The bounty hunter spoke softly and casually as if they were chit chatting over drinks. "Kid would love that place….lotsa plants and stuff."

Arcee beheld him skeptically. "Yeah well…at the rate you're going, he'll be the one taking you. He's pulling in some serious tips, especially since I gave him that apron." Lockdown lifted her up, supporting her by her hips and spun them around once before striking a pose and sliding her back down, pink metal scraping on black. "Oh…wow" she gasped quietly.

Lockdown resumed the classic hold on her hand and waist and guided her into a wider stepped walk. "How much you skimmin' from him?" He growled.

"I would rather not discuss my business practices with you." she retorted. Their steps now involved extreme twists in their torsos and quicker pivoting of their feet.

All of the brothel's occupants were nothing shy of dropped-jawed immobilized. The same thought pressed everyone's processor like a front page headline: The bounty hunter could dance. Scratch that; the bounty hunter could dance, exquisitely.

Ratchet was very uneasy. Lockdown had no right playing her so casually; not after what he did to them…to her. She should ban him from Inamorato. Keep him away from her and from Prowl. She especially should refrain from gazing into his gap-toothed mug with dreamy schoolgirl optics. The medic's circuits writhed. This was all wrong and he needed to put a stop to it.

Prowl, on the other hand was beside himself. He knew the bounty hunter to have a formidable fighting technique born from his brief training with Master Yoketron, but this…this was unexpected. Lockdown's every move on that dance floor was a picture of elegance, sophistication, class and, regrettably, chassis-heating sex appeal. The bartender needed a drink, despite the house rules advising against it; he needed one now. A coolant enhanced drink…double shot.

Lockdown slid gracefully into a turn, twirling the femme then pulling her back against him. He briefly caught the stares from the poker players on that pass, especially the seething optics blaring out from under a broken red chevron. "S'matter with ol' buckethead?" he questioned sincerely as he led her from behind. His hand now rested on her hip and his hook guided her arm to wrap around his armored neck.

This question snapped Arcee from her fairytale world. "Wh--what do mean?" She was dying to look at Ratchet, but didn't want to make herself obvious. "Is he watching us?" The hook slowly traced the length of her arm the continued down her side. He then slid it around her waist and twisted her into a closed position.

"Watching is an understatement." He leaned her into a dip so she could sweep a glance at Ratchet. "Pushin' toward a cataclysmic eruption is more accurate. See?" He pulled her back up then lightly lifted her into a half turn. Arcee made sure to strike an elegant pose in that lift. "He still bitter about our little mishap?" Lockdown already knew the answer to that, but decided to play the ignorant card for the sake of the house rules.

"Very much so" she replied "but I'm hoping there's more to it than that." Arcee wrapped her arms around Lockdown's neck, holding her face level to his. "This should stir him up a bit." She planted her cherry lips onto his straight-line maw and pressed into a hard kiss. Lockdown halted the dance, growling with disapproval as he peeled her off him. He looked down at her with insulted scowl.

"Ease off, princess. I ain't partakin' in yer little playground games." He turned away from her and aimed for the bar but she scurried back in front of him, stopping him in his path.

Ratchet rose from his seat, temper rising dangerously. Brawn leaned over and grabbed his arm. "Keep your cool, pal. No harm has been done."

Lockdown tried to step around Arcee, but she kept blocking his path. "Th'spark you want from me?" barked Lockdown impatiently.

"I have a proposition for you" the madam spoke earnestly. "I will shave a considerable amount off your debt" a devious smile spread on her face as she gave him the elevator eye "if you follow me upstairs to a private room."

Lockdown looked her over with a mix of irritation and interest. "Yer…gonna pay _me_ to 'face ya?"

Arcee was now wearing her best business face with her smile. "No, I'm going to pay Prowl for you to _pretend_ to 'face me."

Lockdown frowned with disinterest. "I don't pretend darlin'. It's all or nothin' with me." He attempted to walk past her, but she stopped him again, her hands pressed to his chest. Arousal brightened her optics as she replayed the masterpiece this mech just painted on her dance floor.

"So be it." she said breathlessly.

Lockdown contorted his jaw as his processor mulled over her offer. Bot like him would be raving fool not to accept an offer like this. "You got yerself a deal" he growled.

Arcee snatched him by the hook and quickly led him up the stairs and into the Crystal Room. Prowl watched them as they passed by, unsure of how exactly he should be processing the events. Ratchet was now on the warpath, unsheathing his magnetic manipulators as crossed the dance floor and passed by the bar.

"Ratchet" warned Prowl "I advise you to stow your weapons." He twisted around to watch the medic huff up the steps. "We are not allowed to use them here. If Lugnut catches you--"

"You gonna rat me out, kid?" interrupted the medic, stopping to look over the railing. "Go ahead, but I'm doin' this fer yer sake too ya know. Someone's gotta put that scoundrel in his place." He pointed an accusing finger to Prowl. "Have you forgotten what he did to your sensei? Or the whole reason your strapped to this job!?"

The medic's words stung the ninja but he stood his ground, displeased by his friend's blatant disregard for the house's number one rule. "This is not the place to discuss these things, Ratchet. I advise you to calm down before Lugnut returns from his break."

"Daahh," he waved Prowl off, fed up. "You sound just like _her_."

The scene in the Crystal Room was equally heated, but in an entirely different way. The alien gems were working their magic and Arcee already had Lockdown on his back upon the plush rug. She was leaning next to him, her hand gliding along his interface panel. He eased back into his elbows, his ventilations picking up quickly. She triggered his panel to open and smiled at the sight of his erect spike. She glided her fingers along it, beholding it with a single thought on her mind.

"Is this an upgrade too?" she teased. Lockdown was not amused and didn't know how to answer that question in a way that met the standards of his pride. Luckily he didn't have to because the door burst open and his interface panel was suddenly snapped back on by a magnetic pulse stream.

"Ratchet!" gasped Arcee, almost convincingly. "What do you think you're doing!?"

Ratchet continued to use his magnetic powers on the bounty hunter, launching him into the far wall. Arcee sprang up and slammed the door behind Ratchet. "Politics at the do--"

"I don't give a scrap about your policy right now!" barked the medic. He continued to hold Lockdown against the wall. "I will not allow this lowlife to make a fool outta you!"

Arcee fearlessly stepped into the magnetic stream, forcing Ratchet to power it down. "That is not what's happening here" she defended.

Lockdown peeled himself off the wall with a groan. He headed straight for the door but Arcee stepped in front of him. "You're not going anywhere. We made a deal."

"I never agreed to a threesome, especially one pistons deep in domestic bullshit!" Lockdown made for the door again, but this time Ratchet blocked his path to the door.

"This isn't about me and her, you no good bottom-feeder." Ratchet stood his ground, despite a slight waver from the crystal's effects. "This is about you and your pattern of amoral acts against the bots I care about."

Arcee softened at Ratchet's chivalry. She was thrilled to see his heroic side again. It became clear to her why her flirting with Rodimus didn't affect the old bot…Rodimus was a good guy; not someone Arcee needed saving from. She should've intervened and kept the politics out of the picture, but this situation piqued her interest more than the idea of just a jealous Ratchet. The Crystal Room would make for the perfect setting for these two to work out their differences, Inamorato-style.

"Bygones, grandpa" replied Lockdown casually. His body started to sway slightly by the crystal's effects. "Why is it you're the only one can't leave the past where it belongs?"

"It's called dignity, you reprobate." One of Ratchet's knees gave a little but he kept his weapons pointed firmly on Lockdown. "Not that you have any idea what that--"

"Sticks 'n stones, Autobot." Lockdown took a sloppy step toward the medic. He lifted his hook to the broken red chevron and toyed with it, teasingly. "How come ya never got that fixed?"

Ratchet jerked his head away, teeth grit. "Because I respect the chassis I was created with. I don't hide behind mods and upgrades." He looked the piecemeal body up and down then glanced at Arcee, expression softening. "And…it's a reminder." His other knee weakened at the sight of her, forcing him to back off from Lockdown and take a seat on the crystal behind him. "The both a ya should be ashamed…some lines just shouldn't be crossed."

Arcee watched Ratchet curiously. Ratchet hung his head, his face unreadable but his ventilations picking up. "I feel…odd" whispered the medic. He pinched the bridge of his nose. "Th'spark's happenin' to me?"

Lockdown grew nauseous and turned to leave. "It's been grand, but I got some business to attend to." He reached for the door but suddenly found himself pulled back and thrown face down by the medic's magnetic pulse. Ratchet dragged him onto the plush carpet, rising from his crystal with a wild glow to his optics.

"Not so fast, Mister Too-Cool-fer-School!" threatened the medic as he pinned Lockdown's arms down with the magnetic pulse. "It's high time you were taught a lesson!" Ratchet forcefully mounted Lockdown's thighs, his face a picture of vengeful intent.

Arcee could only laugh in sheer surprise. This was going better than she thought. Ratchet retracted his interface panel, revealing a fully erect spike then reached under the coat tails of his captive. He pressed his thumb into a specific node on the hunter's inner thigh, a node only a medic could know about, and Lockdown's interface panel retracted.

"Th'spark you think yer doing, ya dirty ol' mech!" Lockdown struggled to free his arms from the pulse but to no avail. He looked to Arcee his red optics screaming disapproval. "I never agreed to this! Call off yer Cool Hand Lube!"

Arcee was still laughing, which heightened the effects of the crystals. She collapsed onto her knees, directly in front of the mechs. The sight of the normally menacing tattooed face pinned into the plush purple carpet only added to her entertainment.

Ratchet pushed his spike into Lockdown's valve, both mechs growling loudly at the action. The medic grunted strongly as he began thrusting, his movements forceful but with a steady rhythm. Lockdown's grunts of protest regrettably shifted to gravelly moans as he felt his valve line itself with transfluid. Arcee observed wantonly, running her fingers across her lips then down her chassis. The crystals resonations now mercilessly infiltrated each bot's processor with pure, instinctual lust.

The madam retracted her interface panel and slid her delicate fingers into her wetted valve, never removing her optics from the mechs. Lockdown's arousal drastically elevated at having a front row seat of this. Ratchet continued to thrust, picking up his rhythm and losing himself to the maddening mix of arousal and revenge. He released the magnetic hold on Lockdown's arms. The hunter immediately grabbed Arcee by the thighs and pulled her into his hungry maw. He slithered his glossa through her sensitive circuitry, searching for the hidden node. She cried out in desire and wrapped her legs around his neck, her thighs pressing him harder into her. His glossa was working wonders on her node and she threw her head back, moaning loudly.

Ratchet thrusts were rough, each one pushing Lockdown hard into Arcee, which further heightened her pleasure. The medic's optics were dimmed and he appeared completely detached and lost in his own mind. His movements slowed down and he gripped Lockdown's spiked hips. He hollered as the overload consumed him then tilted his head back and let his body sink into a slump, basking in the residual sensations.

Ratchet's optics relit at the sound of Arcee's lustful moans. He slowly pulled himself out of the alien euphoria and watched her legs twitch involuntarily as Lockdown consumed her. Her cries of overload were the final wake up call for the medic and his spark instantly stung him fiercely. He looked upon the scene with a nauseating realization. His circuits twisted at the sight of spiked neck between her legs.

Lockdown lapped her transfluid and nipped at her thighs. "Now then" rasped the bounty hunter, "who's gonna get me off?"

Ratchet sat up, immediately pulling his spike from Lockdown and snapping his interface panel shut. He rose to his feet with a wobble, feeling sickened and saddened. His temper flared up and with instinctual reflexes and he captured Lockdown in his magnet pulse then yanked him off Arcee. He tossed the hunter with enough force to send him hurdling through the door and onto the balcony.

The fully sober medic slammed the door shut then turned to face Arcee, who simply laid back and basked in her lingering glow. "How could you?" he scolded.

The following tirade of muffled argument that burst from the Exotic Room convinced Lockdown his ejection from the scene was for the best. He was a bit put off that the both of them overloaded and he was stuck half-falling over the balcony railing with a mind-numbing erection, but things could always be worse. He could still be stuck in there without an appropriate outlet for his erection. He looked down at the bar and met the return glance of a disapproving blue optic visor –now there's an outlet.

Lockdown closed his interface panel then scaled the railing, planting down in front of the bar with a thud. Prowl stood with his arms crossed, failing miserably at feigning disinterest. Lockdown shook his head at the ninja as he tapped his hook on the sleek, gold-trimmed chest. "You got some fucked up friends, kid."

Prowl backed away from the hook. "Wh--Why did you come here?" he stammered.

Lockdown looked over the kid over with a genuine smile. "Came to deliver a message" He leaned over the bar and pulled Prowl into a devouring kiss, reveling how quickly the pretty little body went limp in his hold. He pressed harder into him and Prowl moaned into the kiss, further heightening the hunter's erection. He broke the kiss, keeping only a breath away from the ninja's wet, parted mouth. "Came to tell ya I'm…sorry." Prowl's visor brightened then disappeared back into the tattooed face as Lockdown kissed him again. "I plan on getting' ya outta this as soon as I can." He spoke without breaking the kiss, his each word causing his lips to brush against Prowl's.

It took all of Lockdown's will to back off from the bartender and turn away. His throbbing erection made walking a challenge, but with a slight bow to his legs, he managed. He strolled across the dance floor, turning once with a graceful pivot to toss the weak-kneed bartender a wink then continued on to the exit.

***

The scene in the Crystal Room was not so fluffy. Ratchet sat on a crystal, leaning over, pinching his brow with a wash of anger, sadness and shame. Arcee paced back and forth, her arms crossed, expression pinched with frustration.

"Why are you having such a hard time with this? I haven't done anything wrong!" defended the madam.

Ratchet peered up to her, his optics stricken with pity. "What's happened to you?"

She stopped, her optics brightening in insult. "Exactly what needed to happen…I broke free."

"More like broke down!" retorted the medic with rising irritation. He stood up and made for the door. "I've come here enough to appreciate and respect your achievements and I'm happy you found something that makes you happy." He stopped and glared over his shoulder at her. "But to pull a stunt like this is unacceptable." He shook his head as he ripped the door opened. "You should be ashamed."

Arcee pursued Ratchet hotly as he stormed onto the balcony and made for the steps. "It takes three to tango, Ratchet! Are you going to deny what you just did back there? The urges you just satisfied?"

He whipped around and grabbed her firmly by the arms. "For Primus sake, keep your voice down! And don't you dare accuse me of sinking to your level. You led me into a trap…a processor-fraggin trap!"

"I did you a favor." She defended with lecture. "Those crystals only enhance a bot's true desires. You can't deny how good that felt." She looked deep into his optics and lowered her voice. "It's in your nature…it's in all of our nature. Our sparks don't see faction lines or hold grudges. They simply act on instinct…and that's exactly what I just witnessed you do to Lockdown. The sooner you realize this—

"I've heard enough." Ratchet cut in, fed up. He released her and headed down the stairs, his expression quivering in frustrated heartache.

Rodimus watched the medic approach their poker table and gave him his full attention. "Either we switch venues or you find a replacement for me" spoke Ratchet regretfully.

"Come on, ya old rounder, don't be like that" sympathized Rodimus. Ratchet turned and made for the exit.

"Ratchet!" beckoned Arcee as she reached the main level. Ratchet ignored her and pushed past Lugnut who studied him carefully. "Ratchet, wait!" she pleaded.

Arcee tried to follow him but was halted by Lugnut's massive arm. "Don't follow him" advised the bouncer. "Let him go for now." Arcee tried to push by again but Lugnut continued to block her.

"Out of my way you big oaf!" she snapped.

Lugnut's main optic shrunk in irritation at her. Boss or not, she was behaving rather childishly and needed to check back into reality. "You've obviously upset him a considerable amount. I suggest you let him cool down."

"Do not offer advice to that which you're ignorant to!" she blurted, rudely.

Lugnut hung his head. The entire house grew silent and awkward as they beheld Arcee with shock. "I'm no stranger to love quarrels" defended the bouncer with a pout. "When Strika gets mad, I give her space. I'm only suggesting you do the same to Ratchet."

Arcee beheld with surprise. That's not the advice she wanted. She didn't do anything wrong, especially not in her own damn club. She looked to Rodimus for some verification, but he could only shrug.

"He was…pretty angry, hun" Rodimus spoke hesitantly. Arcee brushed him off and looked to Prowl; her dignity hanging on by a thread, but Prowl could only look away in disappointment. She felt her spark shrink to pathetic state as she looked over the handful of weeknight patrons, all looking at her with varying degrees of disapproval.

"Oh dear Primus" gasped the madam. "What have I done?"


	13. Secret Admirer

_A/N Yeah, me again. Onslaught again. (sheepish). Next installment by me will actually have some *plot!*_

Secret Admirer by antepathy

"You sure you're okay with this?" Moonracer asked. She knew what Vortex _said_, that they were just friends with benefits (some alien term he'd picked up, but she'd gotten the idea and actually rather liked it), but, well, if he wasn't being straight with her, this would show it. She was asking to 'face his boss. More than that, she was asking for his help in arranging it.

Vortex grinned. "Are you kidding me? I love the idea." They'd talked about it for solars after they'd caught his…performance with Rodimus in the brothel.

She leaned in, planting a soft kiss on his mouth. "Really?"

"Oh yeah." He paused. "Moon, I'd tell you if it bothered me. Really." He ran a hand down her arm. "One thing I like about you is that you even worry about stuff like that."

"Thanks. So, do you have any ideas?"

"Do I?" He kissed her cheek. "I'll bring him to that bar tonight. Back to the door. Private room and everything."

"Private? Vortex, but the money—" she protested. He silenced her with a finger to her lips, grinning wickedly.

"Expense account has provisions for…recreational pursuits in the name of de-stressing. So." He winked. "Just make sure he's de-stressed by the end of it."

"You," she winked back, "are the most awesome friend I've ever had. For a mech, that is."

*****

Onslaught had the vaguest feeling Something Was Up, but he couldn't put his finger on exactly what. Vortex had, just as he had a half dozen times before, casually suggested a round or two at the Inamorato bar after dutyshift, where he could gather intelligence in a more relaxed environment. And, he had to admit, he liked looking around. The brothel's probationary femme was psycho, but she was pretty. Watching her gyrate was more than a little distracting. He had had more than a few impure thoughts about femmes after watching her. Which did not endear her to him. Her fault for giving him weird ideas.

Weird and untenable ideas. Like any self-respecting femme would look at him. Past his prime—way past. Never much of a looker to begin with. He had value to society, but it wasn't anything that was conducive to turning the optic of a dainty little femme.

"Get you another one?" Before he could answer, Vortex pushed back to his feet, grabbing his glass. Well, one more wouldn't hurt. He did need to relax. And the slight overcharge was making him feel warm and a little fuzzy. In a pleasant way. He looked around the bar, winking at Barricade, who was taunting the foot-obsessed Autobot by wiggling his toes in tune to the music. Barricade: little fragger knew he was hot. Onslaught wondered what that was like, with a vague sense that he was missing out on something. What would it be like to walk into a room and know that at least ONE mech was desperate to interface with you?

Thankfully, before that train of thought went beyond the suburbs of depressing-town, Vortex returned with two more drinks. "House special," he said, placing one carefully in front of Onslaught. He raised his in a toast. "Best laid plans," he teased. One of Onslaught's old mottoes.

Onslaught acknowledged the friendly gibe with a nod, lifting his own glass and downing a large swallow. It tasted…odd. Not unpleasant. It was the house special, though—he just wasn't, he told himself, used to froofy drinks like this. It was sweet and kind of tingly, and reminded him—a little bit—of the strange tingle he got from that one time in the Crystal Room.

A few decakliks later, and the room seemed wrapped in cotton batting—sound was at a thick remove, sight was blurry. He turned to Vortex, to see if he was feeling the same way. He overbalanced, one hand slapping hard against the table, the drinks sloshing at the impact. Vortex reached for him, grinning. Onslaught felt two small arms around his neck, from the back, something warm and soft and wet like a mouth on one of his shoulder cannons. And then he felt nothing as his face slammed hard against the table.

******

Onslaught groaned. Where the pit was he? He struggled to gather sensory input to ascertain his surroundings. He was on his back, on something soft. It slid like satin underneath his legs as he moved them experimentally. When he tried to move his arms, he discovered they were bound around the wrists, and apparently fastened to something over his head.

The muzziness, for a partial blessing, was receding from his cortex. He'd be able to figure his way out of this. He tested the bonds carefully. His audio was online—he could hear metal cable grate against something else. But he couldn't see. He rebooted his optics. Nothing.

A weight pounced upon his chassis. "I see you're awake," a voice whispered in his audio. "You should know that it is futile to resist."

"Who are you?" He turned his blind eyes toward the speaker. He could tell nothing. Other than it felt awfully light, the weight on his chassis, to be a mech.

The voice tsked in his ear. "Not telling. But I know who you are, Onslaught. Or should I say, Commander Onslaught?" He heard a hissing sound, like an indrawn breath, and felt a gentle touch down his blocky chassis.

Onslaught twisted, the bonds tightening on his wrists. He was still trying to piece things together. The drink. It had to be the drink. Which meant—"Where's Vortex?"

"Vortex is fine. It's you I'd worry about," the voice whispered. He couldn't help but think that the voice, even reduced to a whisper, was distinctly femme.

"What are you going to do with me?"

"Do with you?" A soft laugh. Definitely femme. "Anything I want to, baby."

"Why? Are you an Autobot? I have diplomatic amnesty." His head swept from side to side, trying to locate the source of the voice. The hands trailed down his chassis, rubbing between the interstices where his thighs joined his legs. He shivered involuntarily, bracing for pain, for a brutal interrogation. He had trained for this. He would tell them nothing.

"Won't help you here, Commander."

He gasped, feeling a warm presence, like a mouth, probing where the hands had been. His capacitor raced. "Young lady," he said, sternly, trying to startle her with how much he'd figured out, "This is inappropriate at the very least. This is kidnapping, you realize." And probably torture, but…he wasn't sure exactly how. Yet.

"Oh, I realize." The voice dropped the whisper. It sounded…vaguely familiar, but he couldn't place it. "We'll see if you're in the condition to press charges later." He felt on of his thighs pushed aside, small hands—incredibly small—on his interface hatch.

"Young lady!" he cried out, trying to twist his hips away. She pinned him down with a surprisingly strong arm.

"Not a lady, Commander," she said, and he felt the same warm softness on his long disused valve cover. Another shiver ran through his body.

"Why…?" he croaked, gasping as the glossa ran another hot circuit of his valve cover. He felt the mechanisms stir to autorelease.

"Why? I've wanted you the moment I first saw you. So uptight. So stiff. So…hot."

She was…clearly…delusional. But he couldn't think of a good way to talk himself out of this, because her glossa was now probing the edges of his valve. "Now," she said, and he felt her shift on the soft surface, "I'm going to teach you what we learn in the all-femmes barracks."

"Oooooohhhhhaaaaaaaaaah." Well, that wasn't exactly his finest soldierly response to an enemy assault. Whatever she had done, she'd slicked her fingers in something that sent tingles through his valve's sensors. She wiggled her hand. He heard her laugh as he moaned. This was wrong. It was…disrespectful. This shouldn't be happening. He should put a stop to it.

"Young lady," he gasped. "I must protest."

"No," she replied, "You really must not." He squeaked, feeling her glossa probing his valve again while her fingers continued their gentle work.

"You must reconsi—Please. Oh. OH!" His arms struggled in their bonds, his entire body jerking as an overload sent warm pulsing flares across his sensornet. He lay for a moment, his air cooling kicking on, sucking in air in gulps, quivering once again as she laughed, her mouth still on his valve. She flicked her glossa against a node, laughing again as he squeaked. Again. Really, he was unaware of the weird noises he'd made when interfacing. Probably why he hadn't in so long. Memory block from sheer embarrassment.

He felt her move, and he writhed as he felt the warm glossa lick its way up his spike, tweaking one of the topmost nodes with another laugh. He felt her crawl up his body, and then a mouth on his. He tasted his own lubricant and the sweet tingle of high grade energon. He found himself responding to the kiss, pushing his head up against hers.

She pulled away. Looking at him: he could feel her optics on his. He would give anything to know who she was. "Who are you?" he asked again.

"Not going to tell you," she taunted, one slim finger on his lips. He felt her weight shift. He went rigid as he felt her settle her body on his spike.

He wanted to protest, but his systems overrode him. The slickness of his own lubricant spread down his spike. She moved against him: the thinner armor of her inner thighs satiny against his battered pelvic frame, her hands warm and probing under the armor phlanged plates of his shoulders. He found his own hips surging up against her. His systems crackled on slowly, still unused to being called back out of retirement.

She purred at the static from his warming nodes. "What I like about you older mechs. Not so impatient."

"Too old for you," he gasped.

"Doesn't look like it to me, Commander," she murmured. She bent lower. He felt the smaller shape of her chassis against the rise of his, as her pace picked up urgency. She made soft, delicious moans. He wished he could see her. Oh Primus, he wished he could.

He shuddered, driving against her just as she cried out, her valve rippling against his. She laughed, softly. "See? Not too old for me. Just right." She wriggled her hips against his, causing him to gasp. He hoped she wasn't damaging her paint on his hard edges. Everything about her felt—round. Curved, sleek. So unlike his massive boxy shape. He could hurt her without even trying.

He felt a warm trickle over his spike: his transfluid leaking out as she pulled herself off him. "Oooooh, baby," she said, "You taste almost as good as you feel. Here." He felt a wetness on his mouth. Obediently, he opened his mouth to lick her fingers, even while his common sense and dignity howled at him for his lapse of soldierly demeanor. He made a growl in his throat. "Told you so, honey," she said. "And ohhhh, but don't you just keep giving me ideas…."

A scramble of limbs—blind, he lost track of her until he felt a weight on his upper torso, and his head pinned on either side by long sleek sweeps of armor. The weight shifted forward and he felt the wetness of a valve over his mouth. Which made those sweeps of armor against his audio her thighs. "Primus, baby," she purred. He struggled with his bonds again. Not to escape, but to pull the hips closer. This was…devastatingly wrong. This was probably, he decided, suddenly, some strange hallucination.

But, it sure felt real enough. He probed, clumsily, with his glossa, tasting his own fluid again. She moaned, and he felt a hand clutching behind her at his chest armor. He couldn't make any protest or excuses, not this way. He really had no choice but to give in.

Sometimes, surrender is the best tactic.

His attempt was more experimental than strategic. He wasn't familiar with this kind of thing. But he did his best to remember what she had done with his valve, and found a node near the mouth of the valve, rolling his glossa over it. He heard her vents grow ragged. Her capacitor's racing pace roared in his audio through her thigh armor. Her hands clutched wildly at his shoulder phlanges, pointing down from his pinioned arms.

"Primus, baby," she breathed. "Every time I see you from now on, gonna remember you like this."

He tried really hard not to get the same picture in his own processor. He failed, groaning. She jerked atop him, suddenly, bruising his mouth, murmuring his name.

He did not, he decided, have a name conducive to crying out during overload. He wished he knew what hers was. It had to be better.

Another mysterious shift of weight, and he felt her mouth on his again, licking at his cheek, one hand stroking his chassis. "Commander, you are so fraggin' good," she murmured.

"Please," he said, turning his head to find hers for a kiss. She pulled away, teasingly. "Please, who are you?"

"Can't tell you, baby," she said, teasingly. "If I did, I'd die of embarrassment the way I talked to you just now."

He squirmed. He had found her vulgarity shocking, but…arousing. She wasn't the distant fragile innocent way he'd always imagined femmes would be.

"Sugar," she whispered. "What would you do if I untied you right now?"

Trick question. What would he do? A sensible soldier would attempt to incapacitate his enemy and escape. But for some reason he heard himself say, "Take you again."

She laughed, squirming against him happily. "Primus, you're just like I dreamed you'd be." He felt a curve of armor slide up his face, and then a slackness in the bonds of his wrists. He pushed his face up, feeling the warm plates of her belly with his mouth.

She kept hold of one of his hands. "How do you want me?" She drew his hand to her chassis. For a moment he just lay there, exploring the delicate sweeps and curves of her armor with his big, awkward hands. How did he want her? Any way he could have her.

He flipped her—so easily, she weighed almost nothing compared to him, which scared him how easily he could crush her—to her hands and knees, one hand firm on her hip.

"Yesssss," she encouraged. This way, his weight wouldn't be on her, hurting her. And…he could run his large hands over her frame, feeling those exotic, alien curves. He'd swear she didn't have a flat plane on her. He guided her back against his spike, spreading his legs to get to the same level. He sighed, shivering, as he sank his spike into her. This was probably a drug-induced hallucination or she was glitching crazy, but right now, his interface systems were leading the charge. Common sense and apparently even self-preservation were not even in the forward advance.

"Primus, honey," she said, pushing her aft back against him. "Want you so bad." She braced his hand against her hip with one of her own, her small fingers working in the spaces where his fingers joined the hand.

Onslaught heard himself growl, his other hand reaching for a leverage point on her shoulder, pulling her back against him, roughly. Too roughly for a femme, he thought, suddenly, and stopped, but she continued the movement, rocking back against him.

"Not gonna hurt me," she murmured. "I can take what you've got."

He growled again. "Can you? We'll find out." Where the Pit was this coming from? This was not how a soldier talked to a lady. He thrust into her harder, pausing at the deep end of each push, driving against the topmost node.

She started moaning, loudly, sometimes something that might have been his name, sometimes just some sort of vowels. Onslaught paused to run one hand over his face, feeling heat roiling off his body. And suddenly, his vidfeed flickered back on.

And he saw her. Blue-green and white plates, an almost dizzying collection of arcs and curves, her flexible spinal cabling arching into him, her head thrown back, wanton.

Moonracer. Oh. Oh Primus. The overload tore through him with force enough to stall his capacitor for a klik.

Her one supporting elbow trembled, then failed. He dove to scoop her up, his hands under her shoulders, giving one or two more slower, gentler thrusts into her as he pulled her back, spraddled over his lap. His arms around her slim torso felt huge, ungainly. She shuddered against him, her backstruts vibrating against his chassis, her head thrown back against his shoulder. He ducked his head down to her throat. He wanted to tell her how beautiful she was. But she said she didn't want him to know who she was—that she'd be embarrassed. He could ruin this for her if he spoke.

He cut his optics, pulling her against him. She sighed, melting against him.

"Thank you," he said, finally, clumsily. Like everything he did—it seemed big and awkward and clumsy. "For an…unforgettable event." Clumsy, again. He winced, glad he couldn't see her reaction.

"We…uhhh," for the first time, she sounded unsure of herself. "We could do it again. If—if you want?"

If he wanted. He chuckled into her audio. "But how will we preserve your anonymity, mystery lady?"

She elbowed him in the winch. "Not a lady. I can…work something out. Send you a message with time and a place."

"How will I know it's you?"

She tilted her head back, brushing her lips over his. "You'll know."

He wanted to ask her about Vortex: wouldn't he mind? Did he know? He must know. The drink getting him up here—Vortex had to know. This…would make for an interesting shiftcycle tomorrow.

Wouldn't that complicate things? He didn't want her to feel obligated to follow up. Just once was enough for him. More than enough, just for the memories. For the reawakening of long-dormant desires.

"No obligation," he managed. "Only if you want."

"Oh, baby," she purred, and he could feel his spike struggle to pressurize just at the sultry tone of her voice, "I do want."


	14. Chivalry

Yeah, I really gotta get over my Onslaught thing. And thanks once again to my co-writers who blithely let me flood the place with obscure cameos (Shadow Striker? Really?!?!)

**Chivalry**, by antepathy

Part One: A Knight in Battered Armor

Any hope Onslaught had of getting away from his…interesting evening with any dignity left was more or less shattered the instant he left the room. He'd given Moon racer a half-megacycle to make her escape, which she had finally accomplished after a fierce barrage of kisses and endearments that he would be mortified to have overheard by anyone. Strategic and tactful, he'd told himself, to wait. Decent. Dignified.

He opened the door just as Strika lumbered by. She gave him a salacious wink (disturbing enough, from the former General), and had thanked him for pointing out that 'szund-proving needed ze upgrades in zat room.'

He'd attempted, even so, to recuperate his image by returning to the bar--he wanted to know exactly how cool Vortex was playing it, and half suspected the pair of them, his kidnappers, would be enjoying the juicy details over yet another of the skinny bartender's froofy confections. But the instant he crossed the threshold, the strobing lights from the dance floor fluoresced against the transfluid spattered all over his lower torso (how had he gotten that much onto his winch!?), and…he had, cowardly, fled the battlefield.

By duty cycle, however, his philosophical stance had improved. What was his ego, after all? Compared to… the entirely unexpected event? Onslaught hadn't thought of interfacing in so long it was almost like discovering an old map--he thought he remembered the lay of the land, and remembered all the good features, but wasn't exactly sure how to proceed.

Especially in this circumstance.

Vortex must have been in on it--absolutely. It was his style entirely, if not his sense of humor. The failing in their plan (the failing in most of Vortex's plans, to be honest) was the presumption that the victim was stupid--that Onslaught would not put the pieces together about Vortex getting him the drink, his sudden incapacitation, and then…well, that which had followed. A sparkling could connect such big and obvious drops with a crayon. Onslaught almost felt insulted that he was supposed to not penetrate this far-from-cunning plan.

It made him more than curious how Vortex would try to play this off. And Vortex did not disappoint--he made no reference to the previous night, beyond saying that he was perhaps not feeling so well and it might have been the result of something he'd drunk the night before--just dangling a teeny pede into the waters of a possible, tissue-thin, alibi. Onslaught was sure that if he pressed, Vortex would come up with some sudden called-away-for-an-emergency-interrogation story.

A little frisson he couldn't quite explain or account for when Moonracer showed up at her usual time at the end of Vortex's dutyshift. He could feel, he swore, her eyes on him. For his part, he kept his optics staunchly averted, suddenly finding his datapad's reports infinitely compelling. Or at least hoping he seemed compelled. In truth, his cortex kept feeding him flashes from the night before: the slick feel of her thigh-armor against his audio, the sweeping curves of her back under his hands, that one visual flash of her head, thrown back, lips parted. He could almost feel her small frame shuddering in his arms again.

It made concentrating on the meteorology report in front of him difficult.

He had no choice, in away: after shiftcycle he found himself back at Inamorato. No appointment to meet Vortex or any of his contacts. No proper business at all. It was simply that he wanted to get closer to where it had happened. The velvet curtains which had seemed so louche and tacky a few solars ago now seemed heavy with pleasantly torrid invitation.

He nursed a mid-grade drink, leaning back in the booth, smiling quietly around at the groups pairing off around him. He couldn't remember why it had ever irritated him. They just wanted to feel good. That--maybe--wasn't so bad. As long as it didn't distract one from one's assigned duties. He had to watch himself for that. Odd how such a place had quickly become familiar to him. It felt…odd, but in a way he missed: vibrant, active, changeable. Just like a battlefield, really. Perhaps merely a different kind of battle.

Blackout ambled over, swinging his brassarded arm self-consciously. Barricade had told Onslaught how much this job meant to the copter: no one had ever trusted him with much responsibility before, and he was anxious to make 'Madam General Strika' proud.

"Uhh," Blackout mumbled. "Just wanted to, uhh, never got to really say thank you, y'know, for what you did for Barricade."

"No problem." Onslaught fully intended to make Barricade earn every minute of his freedom. In a way it was like fate had gift-wrapped someone so clever, talented and generally unprincipled just for Onslaught. Onslaught nodded at the data pad Blackout had stuck to his leg. "Getting good use out of that?" He'd signed the requisition for it. For Barricade. Allegedly for his job. Unprincipled little fragger. A less innocent mech than Blackout would have heard a host of insinuations.

However, this was Blackout. His beetly face lit up. "Yes! Thank you so much!" Onslaught shook his head. How did such a marshmallow end up with Barricade? "It's the most awesome thing ever. Madam Arcee says I can study during work--you know, not just on breaks and stuff, but run through my flashcards real quick whenever I need to." He beamed. Then his supraorbital crest lowered with the gravity of his next thought: "I get quizzes every night."

Onslaught took a sip of his drink. "Barricade?"

Blackout's eyes grew round. "He's TOUGH!! Like whoa! And I gotta do well on my quizzes."

Onslaught didn't doubt it. During the war, Barricade's mean streak had been notorious. None of his business to ask, but, "He's not…going too hard on you, is he?" Barricade had been known for some fairly paint-blistering invective that he deemed 'motivational' speeches.

"'Course not. He motivates me!" The copter got starry-eyed. "If I pass my quiz, we…uh, we interface," he looked a little embarrassed.

"That would motivate, I suppose." Depending.

"Madam Arcee doesn't approve. She says it's unsound pedagaggicidal theory or something."

"Is it working?"

"Yeah! I, uh, I did fail my quiz last night, which is why I gotta study extra hard tonight." He hung his head, looking devastated. What kind of legend was Barricade in the berth? Onslaught thought before he got disturbed the fact he was thinking about anyone that way, much less Barricade. He tried to blame it on Moonracer, but…of the many things he wanted to do with/to Moonracer, blame was waaaaaay down on the list.

"That would do it," he said, blandly, only half aware that his comment made no sense in context. Thankfully, Blackout was even less aware.

"I know!" Blackout said. The copter really, Onslaught thought, had no notion of boundaries. "And when he doesn't get laid the night before, he's super-crabby in the morning."

Oh so much more information than Onslaught needed to know. Time to get this conversation back in PG territory. "How badly did you fail?"

The copter hung his head again. "I only got a eighty percent."

"Eighty? That's failing?"

"Anything below perfect is failing," Blackout explained, looking a little nonplussed that he had to explain such obvious common knowledge to a former commander. "Barricade says if I want to be smart like him I gotta be 100% smart."

That cocky, arrogant little…. "Did he, now?" Onslaught drawled. He might have to have a few 'motivating' mentory words with Barricade. Though he did not even want to touch on Barricade's 'reward'.

"Yeah, so I get to retake yesterday's quiz along with today's, so I totally gotta study hard."

"I see," Onslaught said, blandly. There the little fragger was, leaning against the bar, rubbing one foot up and down the other calf. Onslaught looked around--sure enough, the Autobot foot perv was practically salivating. His facemask didn't hide it at all. Oh, Barricade, Onslaught thought, I will so enjoy getting you back for Blackout's sake. Damn copter didn't even realize you're taking such advantage of him.

"If I do good on both," Blackout continued, "he says he'll do my rotors." Onslaught was glad for his visor, so that Blackout couldn't see him blank his optics for a klik. That was NOT an image he wanted in his head. Especially not with Blackout's breathless narration. "He's the best thing that's ever happened to me," Blackout said, dreamily.

Onslaught thought it was more like the other way around: that Blackout was the best thing that had ever happened to Barricade. He'd seen how Barricade was willing to take the whole fall for that museum…disaster. Barricade had never stuck out his neck for anyone. He was about to comment on that when the data pad bleeped.

"Uh oh!" Blackout said, checking the message and whirling to look back at the bar, "busted!" He showed the message to Onslaught: 'Shouldn't you be studying?' Blackout didn't even seem to notice the achievement that he was actually able to even read the message. "I gotta go," he said, sheepishly. "And study and stuff. But I wanted to thank you. Barricade thinks you're just the coolest of the cool bunnies." Onslaught more than doubted that. Blackout scuttled off, scanning the crowd in his best Serious Bouncer fashion, his fingers stroking the sides of the data pad possessively. As if, just because Barricade had messaged him on it, it was even better.

Onslaught sighed. Please, he thought, may I never get that stupid. He desired Moonracer, but he would never--he hoped--stoop to acting so--oh he couldn't even think of words for it.

He settled for shooting Barricade a dirty look. Barricade merely winked at him.

*****

Onslaught had finally admitted that his drink was empty. It was probably time to go, but nothing seemed to slow down at the bar--in fact, things seemed to be heating up. Then again, Blackout worked on weekends--the whole shift-week was over, and everyone was in the mood to celebrate.

Including, he noticed, with a feeling like a solid thump on his winch, Moonracer. A whole gaggle of femmes, like a pastel rainbow, giggled their way across the bar and onto the small dance floor below where the house-femme was gyrating. There were four or five of the femmes, but Onslaught only had optics for Moonracer. Especially when she started moving to the beat. Dancing: such idiotic stuff, moving in odd ways to rhythm. But it was different, he decided, when it was Moonracer. Every sinuous motion of her spinal column, every twist of her hip, sent him shivering with memory. And, he admitted, hopes for the future. She had seemed receptive to the idea.

Another reason to feel he had a superior frame design: his visor prevented anyone from aiming his optics. He lowered his head as if he were staring at his hands, while his actual optics were locked on her like a targeting reticle. Oh she was magnificent. He supposed he'd noticed it, in an abstract sense, before, but something about having had that--and more, having that wanting him--that somehow changed everything. He could look at any of the other femmes with only an abstract, at most, attraction, but she was…oh, dangerous for his dignity. He was an old mech, and had no real desire to play the old fool.

Maybe he would get another drink. Stay a while longer. Just to watch. All right, maybe to fantasize. But with no expectations. And remember, he admonished himself, she does not know you know. If she knew, it would never happen again.

A gaggle of vocally appreciative Autobots ambled onto the floor, surrounding the circle of dancing femmes. It was, Onslaught decided, a tactically poor decision for the femmes to dance in a circle facing inwards, and the Autobots took full advantage of their tactical naivete.

In the crowd of bots, he recognized the one who had molested him in the Baths. His frown deepened, thinking of his boorish personality, much less his filthy hands, on Moonracer's sleek chassis.

That was, apparently, exactly where Rodimus's mind was. Onslaught felt the kind of rage he normally only felt when one of his plans was poorly executed. But this time, unlike the battlefield, he couldn't charge in and fix things. Not without revealing himself. Not without endangering another chance with Moonracer.

Which left….

//Barricade.// He hit his secure comm.

//WHAT!?// Across the bar, Barricade's four optics locked on Onslaught. Blackout wasn't kidding about the waking-up crabby.

//Duty calls, Barricade.//

//Frag duty. Too overcharged for it, anyway.//

//Barricade….// Onslaught chastised. //In the brig, they don't have mid-grade.//

He could see the obscene gesture Barricade threw at him. //Low blow.//

//Low blow, Commander Onslaught.// Onslaught corrected. //And I could go lower.//

//Really.//

//Oh, how sad do you think Blackout would be if…//

//Shut it. COMMANDER. What the frag do you want me to do.// A sigh.

//Those Autobots are harassing the femmes. One of them is Vortex's.//

//You want me to stand up to a gang of overcharged Autobots? What is this, some freaky initiation ritual?//

Well, it made almost as much sense as why Onslaught was really asking Barricade to do this. //We'll go with that, sure. But how bout…// Screw the second drink. Onslaught felt that itch in his servos when he wanted to get directly involved. //you just direct our Autobot miscreants into the alley.//

Barricade mumbled something about painting a targeting circle on his aft and cut the comm. Onslaught stood up, casually, not a concern in the world for the femmes, (who had stopped flirting back to the comments from the Autobots, and tried to close their circle), and ambled out of the bar.

*****

PART TWO: I'm Too Sexy for this Beatdown

Barricade knew he'd hate this job. Any job sucked, but this was twice as bad: one, he was working for Onslaught. Two, he was forced to do stupid slag like this.

For all he cared the 'bots could paw the living girly-goo out of the femmes. (And for all he knew, femmes actually had some strange girly-goo). But orders were orders. And he did not doubt that Onslaught would toss him in the brig faster than he could say 'go frag yourself sideways with a vorpal chainsaw.' So. That brings us to now. Enter, stage right, our titular hero, the dashing Barricade, wobbling to the slightly-overcharged rescue of some femmes who managed to make dancing into a dangerous pastime.

He tapped a mech's shoulder. "Ummm, ladies don't look like they want to be bothered," he said. That sounded diplomatic enough. You know, open the doors of debate. Compare notes on the femmes' relative motivations, distract the mech from the ogling. Nice, gentlemanly, indirect speech acts. No accusations. Well, not much….

"If they didn't want the attention, they wouldn't be moving like that," the red Autobot said, in that tone that implied Barricade was more than a little stupid.

"Maybe you can give attention with your optics and not with your fraggin' mouth?" Do not talk to Barricade like he's stupid, Barricade thought.

"Maybe you wussy 'cons are too shy to show some proper appreciation to a hot femme."

Maybe I'm just not interested in femmes, Barricade thought. But that wasn't the point. He was a small mech and he'd had more than his share of uncomfortable attention. Sure, he toyed with Foot Perv the Autobot, but he was asking for it at this point. The femmes were just trying to blow off a little steam.

Another mech leaned over--he had a gold wing/flamey pattern across his chassis. He poked one finger hard in Barricade's head lamp. "Listen, buster, they don't like it, the femmes can always stop teasing us like that."

"Really!" one of the femmes huffed. "Fine. We'll stop then. After we go talk to that bouncer," she pointed toward the doorway, where Blackout had lumbered in.

"Hey," one Autobot snatched the femme's arm. "Don't be like that!"

The red femme glared at him. "Do NOT touch me."

Barricade cut between the two. "See? Ladies just want to be left alone." He knew he was making himself the target. He hated it. He hoped he could make it to the alley. And that Onslaught would take it from there. Barricade didn't get such a cute face from having it pounded into slag. He pried the 'bot's fingers off the femme's arm.

"Quit butting in," the flame-decorated mech said. "The ladies don't want us, they can tell us themselves."

"We don't want you," one of the femmes, pale grey, said.

"Come on, you haven't even given us a chance," one of the 'bots said.

The flame-chassis'd one said, "Ladies like to play hard to get. We like to play too."

Barricade sighed. "You want hard to get, huh? This hard enough for ya?" Good. Blackout was looking the other way. He jammed a thumb in the mech's groin, snarling with satisfaction as the mech doubled over, wheezing in pain. He zipped across to the exit. "Seeyoulaterathomeyou'dbetterstudy," he blurted at Blackout as he zoomed by.

******

It wasn't subtle. But it was improvisation. And besides, overcharged mechs didn't really do subtle.

Barricade dashed into the alley, skidding to a halt at the dumpster blocking the far end. Onslaught was nowhere in sight. This sucked. His processor raced, trying to figure out what he'd done in less than a deca that made Onslaught wish to visit this sort of punishment on him. The data pad? Was it the data pad? Blackout loved that fraggin' thing. He'd kept Barricade up half the first night playing a letter matching game with little space bunny graphics.

Fine. If that's what the price of the data pad was, Barricade was ready. He threw out his spoke weapon, determined to make a good show of it, snarling as three of the Autobots appeared, backlit, in the alley's mouth.

At least, Barricade thought, this was in the alley and Blackout wouldn't get in trouble for it. The leader mech limped up to him, his friends ranging behind him. "Cute," the mech said. "But you kind of fragged yourself, here, didn't you?"

One of the other mechs hesitated—the red one from before. "Rodimus, this isn't cool. Three against one?"

"You going to let a 'con disrespect us, Ironhide? Tell us what to do?"

"I-I don't know. It's not this big a deal. Besides. The femmes, mech!"

"Frag the femmes," the Rodimus one snapped. "This one needs to learn some respect."

"He does, but not from you," Onslaught's voice rumbled from above. Ah, Barricade thought, the old brace-against-the-walls-over-everyone's-head-like-a-canopy trick. Should have seen that coming. Obvious, really. "But before that, let's talk about what you need to learn, Rodimus." Onslaught dropped his grip, landing thunderously on the ground between Rodimus and the other two Autobots. Onslaught looked over his shoulders at the companions. "You want in on any of this?"

The one who had hesitated before threw his hands up. "Uh, no. Just…you're not going to kill him, are you?"

Onslaught laughed, which Barricade decided was the creepiest sound he'd ever heard. "No." Onslaught said, flatly. The Autobots backed off.

"Ah, Autobot loyalty," Onslaught sneered, at Rodimus. "Either that or another classic demonstration of the famed Autobot leadership charisma. You'll notice my mech is still here."

Your mech is still here because you keep threatening to toss this mech into the brig until his aft rusts and he starts talking to stains on the wall, Barricade thought, but he'd decided he wasn't this Rodimus's number one fan, so he'd let Onslaught have his little version of reality.

"You!" Rodimus said, turning his back on Barricade. "I remember you."

"Surprised," Onslaught retorted. "Thought I'd fragged you scrambled."

Barricade snickered, then stopped, more than a little weirded out by the image of that one. Onslaught interfacing. That was like some obscene phrase right there. Holy lugnuts! Well frag mah processor! Onslaught interfacing!

"Maybe second time's the charm, huh?" Onslaught's hand landed on Rodimus's shoulder. "What do you think?" He signaled for Barricade to get the Autobot's shoulders from behind. Barricade complied but…well, just like that Autobot, Barricade hadn't signed on for this. He was a perv, but he draw the line at consent. He winced at what he was getting himself into. And prayed Blackout stayed inside. He didn't mind being a roboschmuck, just…not in front of Blackout. Fraggin' copter was turning into his conscience. Thankfully, in this case, a detachable conscience. With a job.

Onslaught purred, running his hands over Rodimus's torso. The Autobot shivered. "Don't touch me," he whispered.

"Huh. Can't think why not. The femmes didn't want your attention and you gave it to them. You don't want my attention but…? Nah. Makes no sense."

"I'll report you!" Rodimus blustered.

Onslaught paused, tilting his head. "Yeah, maybe. And then I'll simply call as witnesses all those mechs and femmes from the baths the other solar who saw you forcing yourself on me and we'll see what even your Magnus has to say about that." Onslaught tsked. "Ruin your chances at promotion, flat out."

Rodimus looked horrified, then determined. "Do your worst," he said, through gritted teeth.

Onslaught snickered, another of an apparently growing repertoire of menacing sounds. "I'll try…," he drawled. He leaned over, his battle mask retracting, coming in for a kiss. Rodimus's blue optics were wide with fear, but his capacitor was racing with obvious arousal. He licked his lips, arching out of Barricade's grip toward Onslaught.

At the last instant, Onslaught turned his head, pulling Barricade into a kiss. What the…?! Barricade's mouth opened in surprise, which was the wrong fraggin' answer: Onslaught's glossa slid against his. Barricade moaned into Onslaught's mouth, his talons digging into the Autobot's shoulder, Onslaught's hand against his head, preventing his escape. Rodimus whimpered, leaning in to lick Onslaught's face, trying to wedge his way into the kiss.

"Right," Onslaught said, breaking the kiss with some reluctance, giving one last nip at Barricade's lower labial plate. Barricade was blasted beyond sense enough to even close his mouth. He cleared his vocalizer. "I think you've learned your lesson, Autobot."

"What?!" Rodimus protested, as Onslaught bent down and straightened one of the Autobot's hip panels that had been knocked askew. "That's IT?!?!"

"That's all you get, you impertinent puppy."

"Come on!" Rodimus squirmed in Barricade's grasp. "The Rod is feeling frisky. You can't leave me like this!"

"I can't?" Onslaught stood up to his full height, looking down on the Autobot Prime. He gestured for Barricade to release Rodimus's shoulders. Barricade complied, a little numb, to be honest. What the frag had just happened? He was beginning to long for that other scenario--the 'Barricade gets the coolant whipped out of him by a gang of hostile Autobots' one. That HAD to be easier to deal with than the 'Barricade plays glossa-knotsies with his boss'. Barricade stepped carefully around the two of them, edging his way out of the alley, so he could go somewhere to be weirded out all by himself. And tell himself definitively that what had just happened was so incredibly NOT hot.

"You can't do this!" Rodimus howled. Barricade looked back over his shoulder just in time to see Onslaught toss the Autobot bodily into the dumpster.

"We separate," Onslaught advised, blandly, dusting off his hands with a 'job well done' air. "You go back inside."

Oh, that was the last thing Barricade wanted. All those other Autobots in there. The femmes. BLACKOUT. How the frag was he going to face Blackout after having his boss tickle his intakes? It was different when it had been the freaky clone: that was his fault and he'd brought it upon himself. And he made a second-job of taunting the Autobot foot perv. But this time--he'd done nothing to attract Onslaught's attention. Damn. Too sexy for his own good.

Still, orders were orders and when he thought about it, going the opposite direction from Onslaught right now seemed like a smart idea for his sanity.

*****

Barricade slipped back into the bar. Hoping to skulk around until he found a nice shadowy place at the bar. No such luck. Damn you, Barricade, and your ridiculous amounts of charisma and animal magnetism. Can you be too damn alluring? Answer: yes.

Blackout caught him first, yanking him behind a curtain, pushing his shoulders against the wall. "You'd better be ready to do my rotors," Blackout taunted, rubbing one of his forearm guns on Barricade's interface panel. "I've been studying hard." Barricade felt his spike lubricate at the same time as he felt really really bad.

But he hadn't done anything to make Onslaught do that--why did he feel so guilty? Should he tell? No. It would ruin the moment, and Blackout's cheeky grin was just too fragile. The copter was so used to thinking of himself as stupid that any sort of intellectual self-confidence was about as sturdy as a micron of glass. He summoned a matching grin. "We'll see."

"Oh yes," Blackout said, "You sure will see." He pecked Barricade's lips. Barricade turned away--his mouth felt…a little weird and unkissable right now.

Blackout squeezed him "Huh, gonna make me earn that, too?" He licked at Barricade's audio. "And thanks for getting rid of those Autobot creeps."

"Uh, yeah." Please don't ask any awkward questions.

"Glad to see you're safe. Uhhhh, not that I was worried or anything. I mean, you're plenty tough and you can kinda take care of yourself. Sometimes--". Barricade clapped a hand over the copter's mouth. He shook his head.

"Not helping."

Blackout nodded, then licked at Barricade's fingers. Damn, the copter was frisky. Might have to make the quiz a little easier tonight. What? Barricade might be a creep who just kissed his boss, but that didn't mean he was going to punish himself so much that he wouldn't take an interface from the copter. That punishment would not fit the crime. He had a…thing for rotors.

"Also not helping," Barricade muttered, but without any real force, as Blackout sucked the length of one of his talons. "Besides. Not done with your shift."

"I know. But you just watch yourself! My rotors are waiting…." The copter winked coyly at him as he exited the curtained nook. Barricade couldn't stop a grin from blossoming across his face.

Which grin lasted until Barricade our hero headed upstage on his way to the bar for a little celebratory (or memory-erasing) beverage. Three femmes assaulted him--that was the only word he could use for it—yanking him back into a booth guarded by the fourth. Moonracer, Firestar, Windrazor and Shadow Striker, jerking him off his (slightly too sexy) feet and draped over him in a pile of curvy scrawny limbs. He never appreciated the sturdiness of Blackout's arms quite so much.

"Here he is," Firestar said, nuzzling against him. "Our hero."

"Uhhhh, didn't do much."

"Put those mechs in their place," Shadow Striker ran a hand down his thigh.

"Poked one in the groin. Not exactly mortal combat." He tried to pry Shadow Striker's fingers off his leg. Windrazor climbed over the others, stroking a hand over his helm, tweaking his facial crest.

"You stood up for us," she said, huskily. "We're so grateful."

"Uhhh, appreciate the gratitude," he said, weakly. "But it's unnecessary." Because it was either that or spend the immediate future in the brig, thanks to Onslaught's awesome employee motivation benefits plan.

"We know," Moonracer said. "That's why we're doing it. All the mechs out there," she narrowed her eyes for some reason, like she was pissed at someone, "and you were the only one to stand up for us."

"Really," he croaked, "no big deal. Just doing my job."

"Awwww," Shadow Striker said. "So cute, all this honorable stuff. Sooooooo hot."

Barricade whimpered in sheer terror. One day, he told himself, I'm gonna have to figure out how to turn all this hotness off. In the meantime, he just wanted to slither down to the floor under the table and get back to the cube. He had plans for some rotors.


	15. Business as Usual Pt 1

_A/N: Ok another Lockdown story for you, this time involving Oilslick as well as Prowl. _

_WARNINGS: sticky, cussing and it has references to drug taking and vague prostitution. _

_For reference;_

_Byte: A nanobot drug that is injected into the main energon lines and targets specific pleasure centers in a mech's cortex giving them a high. The more nanobots in the system the bigger the boost. It is highly dangerous and highly illegal_

_RAM: An aphrodisiac drug in the form of a slim disc ingested orally. It is highly dubious but not illegal and gives a mech increased urges and drive for interfacing. They're usually uncontrollable._

_Chapter 2 will be up tomorrow. Enjoy!_

**Business as Usual by Optimus Bob**

Lockdown could not deny that he was more than a little biased towards The Inamorato. Oilslick had questioned his location choice for their strictly business only meeting, but Lockdown had insisted. He had his reasons, chief reason being; one damn fine looking ninjabot who refused to stop being so alluring with his aloof gaze and haughty tones that never failed in getting him hot under the collar and a various other reasons, not to mention it served the best high grade in town. Lockdown smirked to himself slyly giving a quick nod to Blackout before ducking inside the establishment.

It was a relatively quiet evening due to the gladiatorial match – Lugnut and Spittor said to be the most exciting pair up of the stellar cycle – that had drawn away the usual clientele for the moment. This Lockdown did not mind in the least, it would mean more space at the bar and that would mean more optic candy for him.

He sauntered over perching himself on a tall stool and waited for the red satin clad 'bot to greet him from where he could be heard rummaging beneath the bar.

"What'll it be?" Came the distinctly femme sounding voice.

Lockdown did a double take as Arcee stood up to face him. "You're tending bar?"

The sugar pink femme laughed. "Try not to sound too disappointed will you sweet."

Lockdown frowned. "Not disappointed, figured menial work would be beneath you by now."

Arcee huffed lightly. "I wish, we make good money here but not that good, still got to mingle with the masses from time to time." She smiled at him sweetly and tapped the menu that she'd slid in front of him.

He pointed a finger at one option and pushed the menu back. Arcee grinned at his choice.

"What are you grinnin' for?"

Arcee shrugged as she turned to mix the high grade. "Oh nothing just saw that you picked the drink Prowl always makes for you."

Lockdown's frown deepened. "He doesn't make me no high grade unless I pay for it."

She placed the cube in front of him, still smiling. "Yeah but you never need to ask for it when you arrive do you?"

"What are you implyin'?"

"He knows what you like."

Lockdown huffed, "Ninja knows nothin' 'bout me. Doesn't care to know." He took a swig of his drink and decided a slight change in topic was in order. "So if you've given him the boot you really should a' said, wouldn't have worried about this debt you're holdin' over my head."

"Ha as if you ever worried about that Lockdown." Arcee smirked, one hand resting on her hip. "If you must know he's got the night off. Turned up for work as usual and got picked up by Optimus and Jazz, they told me he needed the night off and dragged him off to the arena."

"Huh did they now."

"Well they were so excited how could I say no? I think he secretly wanted the night off anyway." She leaned in dropping her voice to a loud whisper. "I think Jazz is trying to play match maker."

Lockdown glowered into his cube gulping down more of the high grade.

Arcee didn't miss a beat. "Don't be jealous love." She patted his arm lightly. "It's not like they're going to win him over in one night now is it?"

Lockdown grunted, not really feeling the stomach for continuing such sickly pleasantries. Hoping that Oilslick would show his face sooner rather than later, he set the empty cube back down on the bar with more force than he'd intended. "Fill it up."

Arcee complied feeling a little guilty at poking the gruff bounty hunter. "You know if you just told him... you know... he might surprise you."

"Don't know what you're talkin' about. Don't wanna' know either." He felt himself bristling in jealousy and growing irritation."

"Don't give me that scrap." Arcee scowled at him, slapping him gently on the forearm. "You know exactly what I mean."

Lockdown had, had just about enough of small talk with the femme for one night. "Speakin' of talking and being all open..." He grinned darkly. "How's Ratchet?"

Arcee faltered her smile frozen on her face as Lockdown sneered at her. "Yeah thought as much." He grabbed his cube and eased off the stool. "Maybe you should take a bit of your own advice there darlin', offerin' it where it ain't wanted is only going to get you into all kinds of trouble."

He left the bar to find a secluded corner before she had a chance to regain her composure. Feeling quite pleased with himself he sat heavily in a large pillowed seat and sank down with a sigh.

"What have you done this time?"

Lockdown glanced up at the smooth voice. "Mech can't just drink some high grade now?"

"Ha!" Oilslick slid into the seat beside him. "You never look that smug unless you've fragged up someone's life or just been outright fragged."

Lockdown let out a low rumbling chuckle. "You'd know."

Oilslick flashed him a knowing grin. "Indeed I would." He glanced around the room. "Well I am pleased to see I will have your full attention this evening."

Lockdown found himself frowning for the second time that evening, so much for relaxing. "What's that supposed to mean? Think I won't take the deal seriously?" He felt vaguely insulted by this; he always got the job done.

Oilslick waved his hand dismissively. "No, not at all, your dedication to the job is why I wanted you in the first place." His optics glinted mischievously. "I simply meant that you wouldn't be distracted by any pretty sights while we talked business."

"Well I'm hurt." Arcee's mocking tone interrupted their discussion as she placed down a tray sporting a decanter of high grade. "And especially after I allowed you back on my premises again."

Oilslick gave her his most charming smile as he took hold of her hand. "It is always a pleasure to see you my dear." He pressed his lip components into her hand his optics never leaving her face.

Arcee quirked an orbital ridge above one optic and humphed sceptically. "Well your optic candy is off shift today so you'll both have to make do with what we have on offer."

"You'll do fine m'dear." Oilslick purred, casting her a broad smile.

Arcee – despite repressing the surge of nausea at the business mech's leery charms - leaned forward, pouting a little as she lifted his chin to bring his mouth level with hers. "Not in your wildest memory purge love." She breathed, her sweet smile fixed as she glided elegantly back to the bar.

****

Lockdown chortled into his cube ignoring the vague scowl from Oilslick. "So lay it on me, what's so important you can't discuss it over a comm. link?" Lockdown casually swung his legs up to rest on the adjacent seat, swirling his cube absently as Oilslick presented a small metal case.

"What's this?"

"Open it." Oilslick eyed Lockdown over the top of his cube.

Lockdown's tattooed face creased into a frown upon opening. He lifted out a vial of pale blue liquid and twirled it around his fingers idly. "Is this what I think it is?"

Oilslick moved fast, grabbing the vial and the case hiding them quickly from view. "Are you always so careless?" He snapped with irritation.

Lockdown leaned forward resting his heavy elbows on the table, his voice hushed. "Do you know what the 'guard will do to you if they find you in possession of Byte?"

Oilslick scoffed. "Lockdown please, don't be so naive." He sat back his frown once again replaced with a wide insincere smile. "Who do you think the majority of my customers are?"

Lockdown glanced around the room with suspicion. "So you got me out here because you want me to smuggle Byte off planet for you?"

Oilslick leaned forward again. "Not off, on." His optics glinted dangerously. "Just think of how much you can make with one shipment."

"Not interested." Lockdown leaned back, arms folded, optics narrow.

"You getting soft on me Lockdown?" Oilslick smirked. "Sympathies for 'bots will addle your processor you know."

"Not like that and you know it." The bounty hunter jabbed a large blunt finger into Oilslick's chest. "That slag off lines 'bots and 'cons alike. It was banned for a reason."

"Since when did you care about whom your shipment hurts Lockdown?"

Lockdown's mouth pressed tightly into a grim line. Oilslick's optics grew wider. "Oh... I see."

"You don't see scrap."

"Personal experience I take it?"

The large green and black mech averted his optics, staring angrily at the bar.

"Care to talk about it?"

"Care to eat slag?"

"Just a question."

"Shove your question."

The bounty hunter sat arms folded, glaring away from Oilslick. Why in the name of Primus did he keep agreeing to these jobs? He glowered at himself, knowing full well he was going to take the job despite his misgivings. His optics flittered around the room landing on the empty bar. He had never compromised himself before, why now? There were far more honest jobs now the war was done. He let out a faint sigh, frustrated at his own weakness. It was all about the profit, the more questionable the job the larger the profit and Lockdown – for reasons he knew were of his own making – needed the extra earnings.

Oilslick clasped his hands in front of him, wrapping his long fingers around his energon cube. "So, I suppose this means our business is concluded then." He subspaced the case and downed his energon and had barely taken a couple of steps out of his seat when a sharp hook curled around his arm.

"How much?"

He sat back down slowly. "How much?"

"Yeah how much you need movin' and how much are you offerin' to pay?"

A wide grin spread across Oilslick's face. "I knew you'd see sense."

"Yeah sure, whatever." Lockdown sighed. "Throw some numbers at me; I'm not getting any younger."

"Can I get you another gentlemechs?" Arcee leaned between them, collecting up their empty cubes and decanter.

"Please do sweetheart, the evening is proving to be promising." Oilslick replied smoothly his optics fixed on Lockdown's glare.

"Glad to hear it." Arcee returned to the bar.

Opening his mouth to continue the discussion, Oilslick was stopped by a quick shake of Lockdown's head. "Wait." He gave a short nod of acknowledgement as Arcee made her way back with another tray of energon. She flashed them both a sweet smile.

"Enjoy the rest of your evening."

Lockdown immediately picked up his cube, his conscience at odds with the job he was about to accept.

"What made you change your mind?"

"Debts to pay." Reconciliations to make he thought to himself, his red optics drifting subtly over to the bar.

"I see."

"Enough small talk, impress me."

Drawing out a data pad and quickly typing out some numbers, Oilslick placed it face down on the table and slid it across with one finger. Lifting it to his optics Lockdown took a brief glance and his jaw dropped.

"Oil if you're trying to con me?"

"Would I con a fellow ninja?"

"Ex-ninja." Lockdown stared at him. "Are these figures for real?"

"One hundred percent."

The green mech exhaled with a whistle. "One condition."

"Name it."

"One time. Just once."

Oilslick raised his cube. "I knew you'd see things my way."

Lockdown clinked his cube reluctantly against his new business partner's. "You got yourself a deal."

****

Arcee heaved a sigh optics drawn by the site of multitudes of 'mechs and femmes filing in through the door. Loud, over charged and in high spirits. The match had obviously been a good one. She was going to be busy. The bar soon filled up with clamouring customers. Ducking quickly into the break room, Arcee took a few deep intakes.

//Prowl sweetheart are you busy?//

//I am still in the city but the match has finished. Why?//

//Ummm yeah it seems that every mech and their creator just walked in the bar. Would you mind terribly helping me out? Please? I will let you off shift for the next solar cycle?//

A long pause filled the comm. and Arcee could hear muffled voices in the background.

//I would rather not Arcee.// He did at least sound apologetic, but Arcee wasn't really in the mindset to debate.

//Please Prowl, you know I wouldn't ask but you're the best, hell you're the only bartender we have.//

//Staffing issues are not my concern. I'm sorry but…//

//I'll shave off a deca cycle of your contract.// Damn Prowl was a tough nut to crack when he dug his heels in.

//Two deca-cycles?//

//Deal, now hurry.// She cut the comm. before he had the chance to refuse her offer. Brushing off her frame she fixed her signature smile on her face plates and headed back out into the chaotic bar.

****

Oilslick and Lockdown chuckled over their high grade at the sight of Lugnut being led, more like dragged into the bar by a crowd of over eager femmes. His large dark frame was pitted and scarred with lacerations from his fight.

"Looks like Spittor put up quite the fight." Oilslick mused, watching the growing crowds with vague disinterest. His optics always searching for something.

"Hmm, didn't really stand a chance though." Lockdown rumbled. "Lugnut's a good fighter, hates to lose especially in front of Megatron."

Oilslick tugged Lockdown's arm almost sloshing his high grade. "I don't think it's Megatron he's trying to impress."

The two mechs watched in amusement as Strika approached the champion. Lugnut shifted uncomfortably amidst the hoard of cooing, gushing fanfemmes. His optic widened when he noticed Strika approach. She gave him a curt nod and a pat on the back in congratulations and moved swiftly on through the ruckus to help Blackout with crowd control.

Lockdown couldn't help but laugh into his cube at the stricken look on Lugnut's face as Strika passed him by. He tried gingerly to push his way through the femmes but was grabbed by Moonracer - who was gushing over his wounds – and led away from the bar to another corner, where femmes were giggling to themselves and fawning over the large and now increasingly flustered mech.

"He is not good with the femmes is he?" Lockdown pointed out with a smirk. Oilslick agreed with a snigger into his own high grade.

"Prowl!"

Both mechs optics' snapped up at the sound of the name being bellowed across the room by Lugnut. The black and gold ninjabot stood in the doorway, brow raised at the sudden cry of attention. Oilslick and Lockdown watched with intense silence as he made his way across the room. They strained to hear what Lugnut was murmuring into his audio.

Lockdown could barely repress a fond smirk as Prowl promptly began to guide the multitude of femmes away from the slightly panicked Lugnut.

"Got to admit the kid's got a flare for handling people when he has to."

Oilslick shot Lockdown a wry look over his shoulder before turning to face him. "You have no idea." He smiled flashing his denta knowingly.

"Oh and I suppose you're going to enlighten me?" Lockdown huffed, what could Oilslick possibly know about Prowl?

Oilslick gathered up the empty decanter. "It's a tale that requires more high grade. I will be right back." The mech weaved his way through the crowds; Lockdown frowned at the sly glance he made towards Prowl as he past him and a flash of something, Lockdown couldn't quite place, crossed his face. Lockdown wasn't sure he was going to particularly like this story.

His attentions were drawn back by the sound of that cool voice politely rebuking Moonracer's attempts to placate him and leave her and her friends with Lugnut. Prowl had managed to distract them long enough to allow Lugnut to slip away making a beeline for Strika at the other side of the room.

"Oh Prowl!" Moonracer lightly batted his chest plate and pouted. "You ruined all my fun."

"I am sure that there's more fun you could be having." He gave a slight nod of his head in the direction of another quiet little alcove, where Vortex was sharing high grade with Onslaught.

Moonracer's face lit up and then flushed just as rapidly. "Oh, right…" She smiled brightly. "Well I'll let you off this time Prowl." She danced daintily in the direction of the two mechs, leaving Prowl shaking his head in bemusement. He glanced up and caught Lockdown's gaze, his smile disappeared and he froze. Lockdown realised he was staring and quickly looked into his cube as he took a large swig. When he looked up again Prowl was already behind the bar. Damn he was fast.

He kept his dark red optics trained on the bar, watching the ninja work. Feeling a little on the overcharged side Lockdown couldn't help but stare, more subtly than earlier but still completely focused on the black and gold frame and that narrow blue visor. He purred a little, casting his mind back to when he had heard sweet moans coming from that tight, puckered mouth. When he'd felt the warm, smooth armour writhing beneath him, his glossa dipping into that hot, wet valve.

Lockdown drank the last of his high grade, rubbing his thighs together in an attempt to dispel the arousal caused by his ever wandering thoughts. His lust and want whenever he was around Prowl was becoming barely tolerable. It wasn't just the physical attraction either, which both surprised and disturbed him; although the way he moved with his ninja trained grace was always fun to watch. Lockdown sometimes wished he'd completed his ninja training, Prowl might have had a little more respect for him, might have looked at him the way Lockdown couldn't help but look at Prowl.

Lockdown knew his attraction was deeper than that though, didn't mean he liked it any but he found he could no longer deny its presence. It was the way he talked, the things he enjoyed talking about. His interest into organics was unique among Cybertronians and that –for Lockdown – just made him all the more alluring. It was that sly tiny, rarely seen smile, the glint of his visor when he was up to something, just like that time on his ship before the incident that had gotten it all blown to hell. Shuttering his optics he bathed in the memory of taking Prowl in his engine room, granted Prowl hadn't been in quite his right mind but it had felt so much better than he'd imagined and had left him wanting.

He let out a faint groan of frustration, why was he punishing himself like this? Prowl would never really look at him and see anything other than a renegade, the killer of his sensei, a mech with more sins than could ever be paid for. He – as far as Lockdown knew – didn't even remember the time on his ship. He leaned forward, his impatience growing, where in the pit had Oilslick gotten to with the high grade? He glanced up, oh right yes, he had his own personal interest in the ninja. Lockdown narrowed his optics at the older mech attempting to engage Prowl in casual conversation. That was why he hadn't gotten up and walked out, this story of Oilslick's, he was intrigued by this past he'd inferred to and it was possibly a chance to learn more about the object of his obsession.

He frowned at that thought, was he really obsessed? Shouldn't he know better at his age than to go chasing after secretive ninjabots who barely gave him the time of day? He knew he wouldn't quit, with his debt to Prowl, Lockdown felt far too invested to just give up now. Might as well indulge his obsession while he waited, it was much more entertaining than watching Oilslick try and fail to capture Prowl's attentions for more than a few seconds at a time. He gazed across the room, smirking slyly as once again Prowl threw an obvious rebuttal at Oilslick who was at this point clearly pestering him. He shuttered his optics and let his mind wander.

What would it feel like if, when he walked through the door of The Inamorato and laid his optics on Prowl, the ninjabot actually looked pleased to see him? Lockdown felt a shiver down his back struts at the thought of a smile cast his way as opposed to a scowl. He would never admit any of this to anyone, who would believe the cold, hard bounty hunter had feelings? Feelings for someone other than himself, even Lockdown knew how unbelievable that sounded in his own head.

Still if that day ever happened, that perfect day. Lockdown could picture exactly what he'd do. He'd stroll across the room, gather Prowl in his arms and make that ninja weak at the knees with his mouth and glossa alone. He would kiss that inviting mouth until Prowl moaned for him, a moan that told him he wanted him.

Lockdown felt a prickling heat in his interface components as he pictured that moment. Just to be seen as something more than a criminal, a fiend in Prowl's optics. He would whisk him away from this place, take him somewhere he know he'd love, somewhere perfect and if he was lucky he might even show him how to dance. Oh how he would love to see Prowl dance, have him dance with him. It was the only pure, respectable and sophisticated talent Lockdown had and he would bet every credit that Prowl was an amazing dancer.

Those long slender legs moving, gracefully in time with his own, that tiny waist pressed against his, optics never wavering from the other's, his hand gently stroking the back struts as he dipped Prowl back, letting him hang their for a moment, breathless looking at him with trust.

Lockdown let out a faint chuckle, shaking his head. 'What in the name of Primus has that kid done to me? Turnin' my processor soft. Ha if only the stubborn fragger knew.' He thought to himself with vague disdain. Still it didn't stop his mind from getting carried away with the image of Prowl arched beneath him as he pressed his mouth against the smooth throat, down his chest, lowering him to the ground gently. Leaning over his warm, sleek frame, slowly grinding against him until Prowl would wrap those flexible legs around his waist and pull him closer. Let him caress him, stroke him, get him hot, wet, begging for more.

Lockdown groaned softly, picturing Prowl moaning and gasping, clawing at him, inviting his spike deeper inside him, calling out his name and throwing his head back in the throes of passion as he arched his hips into Lockdown's deep thrusts.

He'd imagined it so many times he could almost feel it, taste it, hear him.

"Lockdown…"

"Mmm…"

"Lockdown!"

Red optics snapped open and Lockdown grunted. "Yeah what?"

"Past your recharge?" Oilslick winked as he sat down.

The green mech huffed in agitation. "Thought I'd get some shut eye, more entertaining than watching you crash and burn."

Oilslick smirked and glanced back towards the bar. "Young un' doesn't know what's good for him."

Lockdown followed his gaze, his tanks lurching uncomfortably when he spied Optimus and Jazz sharing a joke or something with Prowl. When had they arrived? He swallowed a growl when he saw Optimus nudge Prowl lightly, resulting in a duck of his head, that rare sly grin and flushed face plates from Prowl. He did not need to watch this unfold, Prowl was a free mech and it was no business of his which simpering Autobot caught his optic. Clenching his fist beneath the table, he gave Oilslick a light kick.

"So you were about to tell me a story?"

"Ah yes!" Oilslick poured out some more high grade for them both. "Sit back Lockdown; this is a pretty wild tale." He tilted his cube towards him a glint in his red optics. "I think even you'll be surprised."

****


	16. Business as Usual Pt 2

_A/N: __WARNINGS: sticky, cussing and it has references to drug taking and vague prostitution. Also even though Oilslick refers to Prowl as youngling in the story, he is however an adult, albeit a young adult, mech. There is still a significant age difference between him and Oilslick though so anyone who maybe squicky about that please don't read... it's a little creepy it's meant to be for the story... you have been warned._

_For reference;_

_Byte: A nanobot drug that is injected into the main energon lines and targets specific pleasure centers in a mech's cortex giving them a high. The more nanobots in the system the bigger the boost. It is highly dangerous and highly illegal_

_RAM: An aphrodisiac drug in the form of a slim disc ingested orally. It is highly dubious but not illegal and gives a mech increased urges and drive for interfacing. They're usually uncontrollable._

**Business as Usual Part 2 - By Optimus Bob**

Oilslick sat back and took a sip of his drink, optics lost in his memory. "During the war as you well know Lockdown a mech had to make his own way, even if he was part of the war and had to fight." He paused staring blankly ahead, ignoring the pleasant chatter around the room. "Had to fight, had to earn money. Not many could do both."

"Oh and I suppose you could?" Lockdown raised the brow plating above one optic.

"Oh yeah." Oilslick leaned closer. "You have to know what to sell and to whom." He winked.

"Byte." Lockdown stated with a soft growl.

Oilslick shrugged. "Amongst other things. Soldiers on the outer rims led a desperate existence and they would sell their own creators for a little release."

Lockdown was getting bored of Oilslick's nostalgic narcissism. "So what's all this got to do with Prowl?"

"I'm getting to it." Oilslick smirked pouring himself another drink. "I tell you though he couldn't have shown up at a better time, just when the Autobots began to gain the upper hand and the market went into a slump, I needed all the help I could get."

***Flashback***

The acid rain was falling heavily, most mechs stayed indoors during the storms due to its mildly corrosive quality, so Oilslick was surprised to spy a shadowy figure lurking on his property. Naturally paranoid due to the nature of his business – a chemical weapons dealer for the Decepticons – Oilslick decided to nip this trespasser in the bud. Grabbing his rifle he braved the storm to face the intruder.

He was thankful at this point for his ninja training. He kept to the shadows easily, creeping up behind the huddled mech. His surface scan revealed him to be an Autobot, but due to his adult frame still looking untarnished and relatively new, he was clearly not a soldier and too young to be a spy. Still a trespasser was a trespasser and an Autobot was the enemy. He dropped down silently behind the mech and raised his weapon.

"You have three astroseconds to state your business before I blow your spark to Primus."

The mech, startled, leapt to his feet and stumbled backwards in his attempt to flee. He fell hard on his aft and stared up at the rifle which was pointing at his helm. "I—I have no business... just getting out of the rain."

"Well I'm not running a hotel here so get your Autobot aft off my property."

The black and gold mech shot him a dark look before transforming and speeding off into the rain. Oilslick watched him leave and through sheer curiosity committed his young face to memory.

***End flashback***

"Is this going somewhere?" Lockdown spat his arms folded.

"Why? Are you in a rush?"

Lockdown's optics were fixed on the spectacle of flirting provided by Optimus. What was Prowl thinking? He shook his head once. "No I guess not." He sat back and gestured for Oilslick to continue.

********

***Flashback***

Oilslick made his way into the city after the storms had cleared. He had business to attend to and product to sell and his client wasn't going to wait around all solar cycle. Making his way through the weaving crowds he heard commotion ahead.

Peering into the clearing he spied the young mech that had taken shelter on his property. He was running and he was running fast but the mech behind was about to shoot him in the back. Oilslick figured this was a waste of such a pretty chassis and stepped in. In a swift move that took the running mech by surprise he had grabbed hold of his wrist and sent him flying backwards into the ground. He pressed his knee firmly into his chest as the mech growled and snarled at him. Remaining calm, Oilslick removed the energon that the mech had stolen and handed it back to the disgruntled mech.

"There you go, no harm done."

"He's always fraggin' stealing from me!" The mech yelled.

Oilslick stood and hauled the smaller mech to his feet.

"Well you would make it easy for me." The young mech retorted.

Without warning Oilslick landed a sharp slap across the mech's face plates eliciting a yelp. The mech struggled in his grasp but couldn't break Oilslick's strong hold.

"Get the frag off me!!"

"Shut up if you know what's good for you youngling."

"I'm not a fraggin' youngling. Let go!" The mech's face was a picture of rage and frustration.

Oilslick really didn't have time for this. He pulled the mech in close and gripped his slender throat. "Stop acting like one then." He spoke through gritted denta, lowering his voice to a soft growl. "And this 'bot might not kill you." He glared intently into the narrow blue visor. It had the desired effect, the mech calmed and glared at his pursuer.

"Don't worry." Oilslick nodded to the disgruntled shop owner. "I will take this piece of scrap to the authorities; he's been lurking on my property too and I want to see him dealt with personally." He cast a sidelong look at the black and gold mech restrained beside him. He couldn't help but congratulate himself internally, convince the idiot shop owner he was sincere and the young mech was all his to deal with as he saw fit and what he saw at the moment had potential.

"Slag like him should be off lined." The mech muttered turning back to his establishment.

Oilslick waited until the mech had gone before turning in the opposite direction, dragging the smaller mech with him.

"Where are you taking me?"

"Somewhere we can talk."

"I don't want to talk to you."

Oilslick smiled over his shoulder. "Now that's not a very grateful attitude to have with the mech who's just saved your aft and could take it with a snap of his fingers."

The mech scoffed his arrogance swiftly returning. "Like to see you try."

The mech wanted to goad him? He would get more than he bargained for. He spun round quicker than the 'bot could react and grabbing with both hands flung him against the wall down a side street. Before he could fight back Oilslick pressed him up against the wall on his front and twisted one of his arms high behind his back, pinning the other to the wall.

"Now you listen to me youngling and you listen good, you want to survive here you've got to become invisible."

The mech tried to shove back growling in anger. "I'm not a youngling!"

Slamming him back against the wall hard enough to make him grunt in pain, Oilslick growled darkly. "Stop acting like one and I might stop referring to you as one."

He took a deep intake to calm his depleted patience. "Now tell me what a 'bot is doing living on the city streets when there is a war going on that he could be fighting?"

"Don't want to fight."

"Why?"

"It's nothin' to do with me. I'm not going to be told to kill some other mech just because some boss bot doesn't like another boss bot."

"Rebelling against the powers that be I take it?"

The mech didn't respond merely glowered into the wall.

"Well no matter. I believe your luck has changed."

"Was doin' just fine without any help or luck." The 'bot mumbled.

Oilslick chuckled releasing his grip and allowing the mech to face him. "I'm sure you were. I however have an offer for you."

The mech still didn't respond, just glared at Oilslick his expression unreadable through his visor.

"You could use the guidance."

"I don't want…" The mech was cut off as Oilslick pulled out the energon he'd retrieved from him earlier.

"But I thought you gave it back!"

"It's a little trick I learned, like I said to survive you need to become invisible. Most mechs here are too caught up in their own self absorbed little worlds to really notice you, if you don't want to be seen."

The mech said nothing his flushed face plates betraying the sense of awe he felt in the presence of this older mech, he took the offered cube. "Why would you help me?" He glanced up his optics a little brighter after drinking the energon.

Oilslick smiled broadly. "I could use young mechs like you in my line of work that's why. What do you say?"

The mech frowned. "What's in it for me?"

"A roof over your head and less of a need to steal energon. Also if you're good, I can show you a few tricks of the trade." He flashed him a wide grin. One he always reserved for charming 'bots into his way of thinking.

"Will I be paid?"

"Ha! You don't want much do you kid?" Oilslick turned on his heel and headed back into the bustling city. He grinned as the mech caught up to him and fell into step beside him.

"The name's Oilslick kid."

The mech continued to frown at him. "Mine's Prowl... not kid..."

Oilslick winked. "Got it."

"So what's the job?"

"Oh this and that." Oilslick draped his arm possessively around Prowl's shoulders. "I'll think of something."

****

Over the coming deca-cycles Prowl proved handy to have around. He was more than capable of charming clientele that Oilslick had to contend with within his home. He also was a quiet mech with quite the talent for swiping other bot's identities that Oilslick used in his transactions to cover his tracks. He did however have a temper and on more than one occasion Oilslick had, had to put him in his place. He did after all stay under his roof and if he wanted it to stay that way he would do as Oilslick instructed.

Much to Oilslick's pleasure the young mech looked up to him and would listen when he wanted to teach him a new business trick or when he put his long neglected ninja training to use and taught the mech a little about how to defend himself. Prowl's need for praise and approval from him was ego boosting to say the least and Oilslick found himself drawn to the mech. He was intelligent and yet so naïve as to the ways of the world that he felt it was up to him to take him under his wing.

The day came when Oilslick needed more than just an identity stolen, or guests placated. This was a day that he had managed to broker a major deal, it was not however going forward as planned.

"Frag it!" Oilslick stormed into the main room and slammed the door behind him.

Prowl glanced up from where he was curled up reading a data pad on the chair. "What is it?"

Oilslick sighed. "He doesn't want to pay what he originally agreed; the thing is if he doesn't then I won't have enough credit to get the shipment delivered."

"The shipment of Byte you spoke about?"

Oilslick eyed him suspiciously. "Do you know everything that goes on around here?"

Prowl shrugged. "I listen."

The older mech huffed and paced the room. Prowl watched him slowly work himself up as he always did over his larger deals. It didn't help that any mech caught with Byte would be sent to the Autobot stockades, so with a half hearted roll of his optics Prowl stood and stepped in his path.

"Let me help."

"You? What could you do?"

"You tell me. What would help?"

Oilslick bit back a retort as his optics wandered across Prowl's sleek frame. "Maybe there is something you could do." He frowned a little and brought himself into Prowl's personal space. "I don't intimidate you do I?"

"Do you want me to be intimidated?" Prowl asked a little thrown by the question.

"Not at the moment. Would you be willing to persuade him for me? Sweeten the deal for him?"

Prowl's optics narrowed. "What would I have to do?"

"Anything he wants, he's a rather vivacious mech and often keeps… company." Oilslick circled Prowl looking him up and down. "Intimate company."

Oilslick smirked as Prowl's intakes hitched when he whispered the words into his audio in conjunction with lifting his hand to drift across Prowl's chassis; he enjoyed the shiver resulting from his touches.

"Would you be willing to persuade him for me Prowl?" Oilslick's voice rumbled softly in Prowl's audio, seductive, inviting. "You know after everything I've done to help you."

Prowl shuttered his optics as Oilslick's arms wrapped around his chest, his hot breath washing over the sensitive sensors in his neck, his intakes became shallow when he felt Oilslick's mouth press into the crook of his neck, nibbling at exposed cabling, his glossa flicking across hidden sensor nodes. He dropped his head back, resting it against Oilslick's shoulder. It had been a while since anyone had touched him this way, not since dropping out of the academy and he did owe Oilslick a great deal, he wanted to please him, hear his praise, was he always really so needy? He let out a breathy moan as Oilslick grinded up against his aft. It felt good to be wanted, to be needed.

"Yes." He breathed his intakes now shallow and rapid. Turning to face the older mech, Prowl looked up at him fondly. "Yes I will help you. What do you want me to do?"

Oilslick's face broke into a wide smile. Clapping his hands together he gently touched Prowl's cheek. "Come with me."

****

Prowl hesitated at the doorway and turned round sharply only to walk straight into Oilslick. "I can't do this, it's just too… wrong."

"How is it wrong? You're just going to use those delicious charms of yours to persuade him to my way of thinking. I will be watching the entire time remember, I own this building and anything he says or does I can use. We agreed on this right?"

"I don't know Oilslick, it doesn't feel right… I mean what if he wants to… you know."

"'Face you?"

"Yes." Prowl looked away, feeling ashamed at his sudden cowardice. He was no pleasure bot why was he even considering doing this? Did he really owe Oilslick that much?

"Stop worrying. Remember what I told you. Let him do everything… but that."

Prowl nodded nervously. Oilslick smiled and retrieved something from his subspace. "Here take this."

"What is it?"

"It's a disc of RAM, for your nerves. Won't hurt you. Open your mouth."

Prowl did as he was told as always and Oilslick placed the tiny disc on his glossa, he hesitated before pulling away, dragging in the rich scent of the Autobot, the heat from his already overworked systems.

"Go now." Oilslick commanded and watched him enter the building. He returned to his home and activated his security monitors. They literally combed every inch of his property, even the inn in which the mech in question was staying. He sat down and waited focused on the single room where one mech suddenly received a visitor. Oilslick smirked to himself as he watched Prowl with the mech, he was alluring to say the least and was clearly charming the mech. After a short while Prowl held out the data pad for the mech to sign, only to find it batted away. Oilslick's optics widened as Prowl without warning jumped the mech and proceeded to persuade him by any means at his disposal.

He was impressed, the mild aphrodisiac he'd given Prowl seemed to be working, he had gotten the mech so worked up and flustered that he had no idea what he was signing when Prowl handed him the datapad once again.

Oilslick leaned closer to the monitor. "That's it, good boy… now make nice and leave." Pleasingly Prowl seemed to be doing just that, that was until the mech decided he had other ideas and pinned Prowl to the berth. Oilslick growled angrily at the monitor as he watched the mechs writhing on the berth. The drug was working a little too well for his liking. Slamming the monitors off, Oilslick sat in the dark and waited.

****

Prowl returned to his home, Oilslick's home, feeling a little light headed yet distinctly pleased with himself. He had gotten the signature, the deal was made, he felt warmth buzzing through him and he smiled coyly to himself. Whatever Oilslick had given him had sure done its job, he felt completely relaxed and still more than a little horny even after he'd worn out that other mech. He called out Oilslick's name upon entering only to find the building in darkness. Frowning Prowl shrugged and headed to his room, leaving the datapad on the table.

A whisper of air brushed past his audio, Prowl spun round and yelped when strong hands grabbed him from behind and dragged him into his room. He kicked and struggled viciously, yelling at the assailant to let him go. The mech snarled at him and flung him into the wall hard enough to white out his optics for a few seconds. Prowl hissed as he was shoved up against the wall painfully, both his hands were caught in a vice like grip above his head.

"Who are you?!"

"Oh it's me pet. You know the one who lets you live here, provides you with energon, supports you."

"Oilslick?" Prowl gasped trying to turn only to have his head slammed into the wall. "W—what are you doing?" Prowl glanced up as he felt something solid clamp around his wrists, stasis cuffs, he couldn't move.

"I am putting your insolent aft in its place." Oilslick growled his hot breath close to Prowl's throat, his audio. "You need reminding that you work for me, you are my property."

"I'm not…Gaahh!" Prowl cried out as strong hands spread his legs and pawed at his interface panel. He mewled as he felt his cover auto-retract, he was still so worked up from 'facing that other mech - which he had, had no intention of doing and couldn't quite figure out why he had – that he didn't recoil from Oilslick's heavy petting, it was surprising but still enjoyable.

"Still wet I see." Oilslick purred into his audio. His voice was different, darker, deeper, intimidating.

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you Prowl." Oilslick spoke over Prowl's wanton groans and whimpers, shoving two fingers into his still wet valve and began thrusting them into the quivering entrance. "The only spike you EVER take… is mine." A grunt of want escaped Oilslick's vocaliser as he thrust his hard spike into the hot valve.

Pinning Prowl's hands above him he thrust hard and slow, relishing the whimpers from the young mech that sounded with each hard thrust. He could feel his overload building, it had been quite a while for him and Prowl was deliciously tight, valve walls clenching greedily around the ridged sensor nodes lining his spike. Unable to contain himself he grabbed Prowl's hips and pounded hard and fast into him, grunting loudly as lust, power and arousal took him over. He barely heard the gasp and cry from the black and gold mech as he thrust wildly.

Crushing his hard frame against the smooth, trembling chassis of Prowl, Oilslick was relentless, he liked it rough and he didn't really care if Prowl enjoyed it or not at this point. He was teaching the cocky 'bot a lesson.

"Hu—hurting…me…Nnngghhh." Prowl managed to whimper in between forceful thrusts.

Oilslick let out a laugh, having Prowl cry out and squirm beneath him was too much, he felt his spike swelling. Prowl's yells for him to stop however were not helping his mood. Reaching one hand around Prowl's waist he lifted him higher to give himself better access and wrapped the other around Prowl's mouth to prevent him from protesting.

Hot breath seeped through his fingers as Prowl groaned with pleasure into his hand. Oilslick held him tightly as his slight frame tensed and locked. Unable to move due to the stasis cuffs; Prowl's frame overheated as overload hit him and he fell limp with soft cry. Oilslick felt the rolling heat wash over him in waves, tingling through his circuitry he roared as hot fluid spurted from his spike, making his movements slick as he thrust once, twice more before collapsing against the wall, ignoring the whimper from Prowl as he fell heavily against him.

He brought his hand up to run across Prowl's heated faceplates. "So we understand each other?"

Mumbling and dropping his gaze to the floor Prowl nodded meekly. Oilslick slipped his de-pressurised spike out and released the stasis cuffs. "Hmmm I could get used to this arrangement." He smirked at Prowl's shaken demeanour. "Oh don't pout." He lifted Prowl's face with a single long finger beneath his chin. "I don't ask for much do I?"

Prowl shook his head and allowed the older mech to embrace him. The buzzing warmth he felt earlier had gone, now his tanks lurched at the realisation of what had just happened, the effects of the drug finally wearing off. He felt cold, hollow and angry. He had never felt so out of control in his life; even at the academy where he'd struggled to fit in, to belong he had never felt as trapped as he did at this moment.

Oilslick murmured into his audio. "Obey me in future Prowl, that's all I ask of you."

He was trapped, he had been lured by Oilslick's devious, selfish charms, his neat tricks and he had awed at his fighting skills and his stealthy, graceful movements, all of which he had later learned were due to Oilslick's past training as a ninja and not down to the mech himself. Prowl could only give one answer. "I will do anything you ask." He murmured, hoping that the regret he now felt, the disappointment in himself, as he rested his head against the warm chassis, went unheard, for he had no where else to go. He failed to see the dark look on Oilslick's face as he uttered those words.

"That you will Prowl, that you will."

***End Flashback***

Lockdown was staring at him as he drifted reluctantly out of his reverie. "You gave him RAM to work for you?"

Oilslick waved him off. "Oh because you have been such a saint in your time Lockdown."

The bounty hunter glared at him. "So what happened after you made him do that first job?"

Oilslick had neglected to tell his own part in the story and for very good reason, he wanted to keep his head attached to his body, but there was always fun to be had in goading the prickly mech. "He worked for me far more often and Lockdown you should see what that kid can do in the berth when you slip him some RAM."

"No… I really don't think I should. You used him."

"Of course I did, desperate times and all that. He didn't know any better and was quite happy to share my berth for that entire stellar cycle whenever I requested it." Oilslick smirked, priding himself on being able to hit any nerve in a mech; it always resulted in much amusement on his part, especially when the mech was as guarded as Lockdown was.

"He what?!" Lockdown spluttered his drink across the table, not quite believing that Oilslick and Prowl, he shuddered to think about it.

"Well he did until the dumb fragger got caught stealing for me." Oilslick had a dark look about him, his optics drifting over to where Prowl was enjoying himself. "Mmmm what I wouldn't give to slip him a little RAM right about now… see if he's still got it, he was wild." He made to turn to Lockdown. "I bet you wouldn't pass up that chance would… Oooofff!!

Oilslick's optics came back online to stare at the ceiling, shaking his head he glared up from the floor on which he was now sprawled. "What the frag was that for?!"

Lockdown bore down on him, heaving him to his feet by his collar fairing with one hand, slamming him into the table sending the cubes clattering to the floor. Oilslick cried out as another punch struck his face. "You disgust me." Lockdown growled before leaving him splayed on the table and walking away.

Oilslick was furious, how dare the bounty hunter of all mechs, judge him, after everything he'd done in his past. "You think you're better than me?!" He snarled at Lockdown who had frozen in his tracks. "You think you're any different to me? Tell me, what is it you crave most Lockdown? Pining only gets you so far… you want something or even someone you have to take it… by force!" He launched himself at the black and green mech sending them sliding across the floor, stopping at the feet of Optimus, who; with Jazz's help hauled Oilslick off Lockdown.

Both mechs got swiftly to their feet, Optimus found himself slammed against the wall with one large hand, Lockdown glaring at him. "Stay out of my face pretty 'bot, or I'll rearrange yours."

He turned back to Oilslick who was coming in for another attack. "That's the difference between me and you Oil. I haven't crossed that line and I'm certainly not about to start for you!" He dropped his weight and sent his heavy leg smashing into Oilslick's weaker shins. The slighter mech flipped in the air and landed awkwardly on his front groaning loudly.

"The deal's off Oil. I've had enough of this shit."

Lockdown flinched as Blackout's heavy hand clamped around his shoulder. "Sorry guys' house rules can't have you wrecking the joint like a couple of over charged space bunnies. I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

Lockdown brushed his hand off. "Don't worry I'm already gone. You might want to give him a hand though." He jabbed his thumb over his shoulder at the struggling Oilslick, before heading for the exit. He readied his fist as something caught his arm.

His optics widened, falling onto a concerned Prowl. "Go back to your friends kid, this aint no concern o' yours." He wrenched his arm free and pushed through the doors.

Frowning Prowl barely registered Optimus touching his arm gently. "It's done Prowl, let him go. Let him cause trouble elsewhere."

Prowl glanced up at Optimus who smiled warmly at him. "I'm sorry, I'll be right back." He muttered. Ducking his head from Optimus's confused expression; he followed Lockdown into the street.

"Lockdown wait!"

Halting in his tracks, Lockdown actually smiled at the sound of that rich voice calling him back.

"Why were you fighting?" Prowl demanded. "Do you just have an ingrained need to create unrest wherever you go?"

Lockdown found himself actually laughing. "You have no idea darlin' and as I said before it's none of your business." He turned to face him, optics taking in every line of his handsome face. He stepped into Prowl's personal space, knowing it made him uncomfortable, he could already feel the heat from his chassis. "Don't you think you ought to run back inside before your date gets the wrong idea?"

Prowl's frown deepened. "Why can you never give me a straight answer?"

Lockdown drew back at the unexpected question. "Give you a straight answer? Primus kid you're one to talk."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

He cast a wry look at Oilslick who was still fuming at the entrance of The Inamorato, currently arguing with Blackout. "Why don't you ask your blast from the past over there."

Prowl followed his gaze and Lockdown heard his air intakes stall. He narrowed his optics at Prowl who looked briefly down at his fidgeting hands before staring at Lockdown with wide optics and a parted mouth, unable to find an appropriate response.

Prowl fidgeting, speechless? 'Well now.' Lockdown thought to himself, the mech wasn't made of stone after all. "Oh yeah I know a lot of stuff I much rather I didn't and if you really must know." He curled his hook around Prowl's neck, bringing their faces mere inches apart. He hesitated for a second, breathing in the hot air exhaled from Prowl's vents as a result of the close contact before pressing his mouth against him, swallowing the mewl of surprise from the black and gold ninja.

He broke the kiss smirking at the flush apparent on Prowl's face plates. "I don't like mechs disrespectin' those I happen to have respect for. Makes me get into fights." He straightened enjoying the moment of Prowl's stunned surprise. He turned with a smirk and walked away, shouting over his shoulder. "And I only like fighting for the ones I like."

Prowl stared after him, brushing his fingers across his lips he suddenly felt the need to intake air deeply.


	17. The Usual Suspects, pt 1

_A/N Yeah, another longie from me. But hey, we need to expand the cast of thousands. It's not…cast of thousands-y enough. The events in this chapter take place the same day/night as Optimus Bob's "Business As Usual." _

**The Usual Suspects **by antepathy

Blackout squirmed, moaning as Barricade licked his way down one rotorblade. He'd passed both of his quizzes, and he was getting his prize. And even though Barricade had grumbled loudly about being kept in some sort of perverse sexual slavery and that he was ONLY doing this to help motivate Blackout intellectually, somehow, Blackout didn't quite believe that. Partly because he heard the way Barricade's own engines revved when he'd rolled over onto his belly, so Barricade could reach both sets of his rotors easily.

He supposed it was probably pretty weird for a grounder to have such a thing for his rotors, but it was one of the things he liked about Barricade: he was so open-minded. And he felt really good—almost like he knew exactly where the sensitive spots were on a copter's rotors.

Barricade almost hummed, rubbing his pelvic frame against Blackout's hip, sliding one rotor between his talons up to the engine mount. Blackout bucked. Oh, this was unbelievably good. He lifted his head. "You're teasing me," he pouted.

"Not teasing you, eggbeater," Barricade said, following his talons up the blade with his mouth, pausing to tongue the engine mount. "More education. This is all about science."

"Science." Blackout wanted to roll over and snatch up the smaller mech, and maybe even put HIM face down on the berth. His hands clutched the berth's cool metal surface, heat spreading from the small sinks in his fingers in little fogs.

"Yes, science." Another lick at the engine mount, this time with a sort of purring sound. Blackout didn't know if the purr vibrations were supposed to be arousing…but they were. "Basic science, Blackout. A scientist has an idea. He calls it a hypothesis. He designs an experiment to test his hypothesis."

"Yeah, know that much," Blackout griped. He used to watch _Wheeljack's Magic Lab_ as a sparkling. Come to think of it, the foot perv kinda looked like his childhood hero…. Wow, he did not want to think about the foot perv right now. Especially not if he were the same guy. Creepy. Not when Barricade was slicking his hands down both sets of rotors, making the blades slide against each other deliciously. "So," he shivered, "what's the hypothesisis?"

"The hypothesisis," Barricade teased, "is simple: we are testing if a rotary mech can overload from rotor stimulation alone."

"Uhhhh, I'm gonna say it's distinctly possible," Blackout said, judging by his raging spike, leaking lubricant onto the berth and probably making a dent in it.

"Your opinion is not scientific evidence," Barricade said, smoothly, leaning forward so that his chassis rubbed along Blackout's back. Blackout squirmed again, his spike bumping almost painfully against the berth's surface before the lubricant helped it slide. Barricade nipped at the mounting bracket of one rotor blade, causing the copter to cry out, arching his back. "Interesting data," Barricade observed.

"I got your data right here," Blackout mumbled weakly, but his whole frame was trembling too hard for him to move. His spike quivered, his valve spiraled, almost as if it were gnashing in frustration. He felt Barricade's own pelvic frame, his interface hatch closed, grind tauntingly against his aft. "Come on!"

"Now, now, Blackout," Barricade said, "You can't rush science." He growled under his breath.

He must be getting frustrated, Blackout thought. He'll give in soon. Barricade has like zero tolerance for frustration. He'll give in. I hope. Please. Blackout ground his hips against the berth, his hands pawing at the air helplessly. He tried to turn his head and see what Barricade was doing, but his engine mounts blocked his line of sight. He thrashed from side to side, as Barricade snatched all of his rotors in his two hands, sinking is denta into one of the manifolds. "Come ooonnn!!"

Barricade hiked his legs up, riding Blackout's thrashing body. "Primus, you have no idea how much I get off on these things," Barricade growled into Blackout's audio. He bit another manifold, rubbing the rotors together between his fingers.

Blackout howled, bucking again under Barricade, who clamped his knees over Blackout's sides, grinding his hips against the copter's back.

Blackout subsided, whimpering. "Think you just got more data. All over the berth."

Barricade looked up from where he was nibbling at the manifold. "Really?" He scrambled off Blackout's back, laughing. Blackout rolled over, revealing the oblong puddle of transfluid, streaked with lubricant. "Science is awesome."

Blackout growled, grabbing Barricade by one shoulder tire. "Science IS awesome," he said. If he'd expected Barricade to protest as he threw HIM facedown on the berth and started licking his doorwings, well, he decided simply not to give Barricade a chance to get any words out at all. "Now let's test the hypothesis that it works for grounders."

He'd just made some steady progress in getting Barricade worked into squealing, between the door wings and the drivetrain tires, when he heard a strange bleep.

"Oh FRAG!" Barricade cried, banging his face against the berth. His voice got small and very, very sorry. "Gotta take this. Onslaught."

Blackout pushed off of Barricade's back. Not like he had much choice. Blackout wasn't stupid—he knew the only reason Barricade hadn't been thrown into some secure facility to appease that Sentinel Magnet jerk was because Onslaught stepped in. As Barricade swung his legs petulantly over the side of the berth, Blackout snuggled up behind, nuzzling against his tires. "'S'okay. Make it up later," he mumbled, as the smaller mech tapped his comm.

Barricade's gaze went distant. "Yeah? Sure. Yeah," sigh, "tonight's fine. No, didn't have anything planned…for then. No, didn't interrupt anything." He growled, stroking a hand down Blackout's thigh, possessively. "Fine! Yes! Later! No, I'm NOT trying to get off comm to go back to 'facing with Blackout!" Another growl. "Fine, so I am. Another victory for your keen intelligence gathering." He squirmed on the side of the berth. "Can I GO?!"

Blackout grinned into the tire he was nuzzling. Barricade had a temper, but sometimes, from a safe distance, it was fraggin' adorable.

"PRIMUS!" Barricade exclaimed, slapping his talons against his legs. "Onslaught picks right fraggin' now to be Chatty Cathode. Can you believe it?"

Blackout pulled Barricade's back against his chassis, running his arms down Barricade's grille and across his thighs. "You wanna talk or do you want to get back to science?"

Barricade tipped his head back against Blackout's chest. Blackout obediently bent in for a kiss. Barricade nipped his labial plating with his denta. "Bad subject for science right now," he muttered.

"What do you want?"

"Ha!" Barricade twisted, rising to his knees on the berth in Blackout's arms. "I am in need of some straight up 'copter lies there moaning' sex."

Blackout grinned. "I can do that."

****

Barricade pasted his Happy Face on as he entered the bar of Inamorato. Of course Onslaught HAD to meet here. And on a night when Blackout was working. First, Blackout insisted on flying him, which was embarrassing enough, but the copter had a thing about Barricade walking alone. Right. Like any mech with a sense of self-preservation would cross Barricade in a dark alley. Not like there were many dark alleys between their cube and the bar. Still, it was a little…silly-feeling, and he was glad they managed to land on the roof so he could scrape up some dignity before hitting the employee's breakroom and out into the bar proper.

He nodded briskly at Strika as he walked past the open office door. She looked up from her monitor—some live feed—sounded like the Arena. Probably checking how her 'talent' was doing. Smart lady, he thought, feeling a little down on himself. She'd turned her experience into business investments. What had he done? Sponged off a copter.

So, all things considered he wasn't in his happiest mood when he slid into the booth across from Onslaught. Without Vortex. Uh oh.

Barricade, he told himself, once again, you are too damn sexy for your own safety. The other night he'd barely escaped with his life—all those crazy femmes pawing at him. Not to mention his boss locking lip-plates with him. It suddenly seemed a little weird and more than a little 'too convenient' that Vortex was missing.

Onslaught, for his part, smirked over his drink, as he tapped one finger on the second beverage on the table. "Already got you some high grade," he said, "hope you don' t mind." He watched Barricade look down at the drink, figure the cost, and then gulp. It is quite possible, Onslaught reasoned to himself, that kissing the little pervert might have been one of the better things I've done. It was so rare to see Barricade…unsettled. It was deliciously entertaining, yes, but more than that, it gave him a handle by which to steer the little mech. Best to play this one with a light hand though—start acting too…cow-eyed he'll think he has control over you. Best to pretend right now like it never happened. And enjoy watching him struggle to pretend the same.

"Yeah," Barricade croaked. "Thoughtful of you. Ummm, where's Vortex?"

Onslaught struggled with his smirk. "Oh, he's got other business right now. And he has faith that his commanding officer can handle an upbrief all by himself."

Barricade sucked in a breath, nearly inhaling some of the high grade by accident. "Fine. So…what you got for me that's so fraggin' important?"

"Did you get to finish?" Onslaught had learned more than a few interrogator's tricks from Vortex.

"What?"

"Finish what I interrupted, with your copter friend?" Onslaught nodded showily at Blackout, who was doing a perimeter-walk of the room. Blackout's face split into a huge grin in reply.

"Kind of." Barricade frowned at him. "Now, are we here to talk about my private life, really?"

Onslaught tapped his secure comm, a precise copy of the one Barricade had on his wrist. "You don't have a private life anymore, Barricade." Barricade bridled under the statement, then shot a worried look at Blackout.

"Kinda empty in here tonight, isn't it?" Barricade deflected. He did not want to think about that last comment, especially about Blackout. What had he dragged the innocent copter into?

"Big fight tonight. The other bouncer, Lugnut, against Spittor. Supposed to be evenly matched."

"My creds would be on Lugnut."

"Ehhhh, Spittor's pretty tough," Onslaught prodded.

"Tough doesn't necessarily mean 'win'," Barricade retorted. "Lugnut is single-minded. He's got two things he can track: Strika, and hand-to-hand. He works it out that the two are the same thing—making Strika happy means winning this match, right? Bingo. He's like a laser sight. Spittor's slag."

"So, you do your analysis based on personality rather than actual armaments or stats." Onslaught said this as if Barricade had revealed something private.

"Yeah, don't you?" Barricade narrowed his optics at Onslaught, trying to figure him out. "Now, do we have any actual business here?"

Onslaught took a slow sip of his drink. "Sure," he said, finally. "And there's a reason I'm using you for this. Beyond the fact that I have a kink for coitus interruptus."

An evil glare. "And that would be…?"

"You were intimately involved. Yes, the jewel heist."

"Ummm, I was involved in the UN-heisting part of that."

"Yes, I recall," Onslaught said, pointedly. "We also presume that the mastermind behind that wasn't your, umm, special friend Skywarp."

"He's not my special friend!"

"So…you haven't interfaced with him?"

"That's uhhhh, not really anything we need to go into." He was going to say, not any of your business, but Onslaught would only drag up that 'you have no privacy' thing again to grind his sexy little face into.

Onslaught sat back. He was truly enjoying this. A rare day since the end of the war when he could honestly said he was enjoying his work. "Fine. We know that Skywarp wasn't behind it."

"Thundercracker was." Barricade blurted. Great. Bingo, you have your lead, and can I go now?

Onslaught blinked. "Thundercracker—another of the clones, yes?"

"Could have solved this mystery without getting me involved you know: Skywarp practically lives in the basement."

"He's…, well, to be honest," Onslaught didn't really hate admitting this as much as it sounded, "He's a little afraid of me."

Barricade snorted in his drink, sitting back, his hands over his face. "Teleport on you, did he?"

"And…other things." Which Onslaught really did hate admitting. He didn't want to remember that. Nor, he imagined, did Vortex.

Now it was Barricade's turn to smirk, and he was taking full advantage. "So, now you know: Thundercracker." He took a big swallow of his drink, edging to the end of the booth's seat. "So, I'm out of here. Thanks for the drink; my work here is done."

"Not so fast, Barricade." Onslaught pointed him back into the seat. Barricade flopped into it, looking aggrieved. "We need him."

"Pretty sure you don't. If he's another of the clones, probably more trouble than he's worth."

"Questioning my decisions, Barricade?" Onslaught sat back, amused.

"Questioning your sanity."

Onslaught grinned, taking a showy look around the room. Give Barricade a chance to have a second thought or three about the wisdom of his last statement. "Thought you were more interested in motives than results. Challenge: get him for me. Or, as I strongly suspect, whoever's actually behind it."

Barricade frowned, tapping the rim of his glass. "You think it's Swindle, don't you?"

Sigh. "Yes. And that's why it can't be me or Vortex who gets him."

Frag. Well, Swindle was a simple-minded creature. Barricade could handle him. "So, what's in it for me?"

"Your continued liberty? One happy helicopter?"

"One employer getting his jollies pushing my buttons?" Barricade muttered.

"Oh, that's what's in it for me, Barricade," Onslaught said, mildly.

A burst of noise from the front entrance—Lugnut, surrounded by a swarm of femmes. Barricade watched as Onslaught's visor shifted, unmistakably tracking the swarm. Huh. THAT was interesting.

Lugnut himself looked…a bit worse for wear and Barricade sent another prayer of rare gratitude to a deity who would doubtless have condemned him to an after-spark of eternal punishment that Blackout hadn't been dumb enough to try arena fighting. Huge swathes of dermal plating were scored down to bare metal, pink energon was still stuck in the seams of his armor, where it had somehow resisted showering off, and a wire in his neck shorted and cast sparks every few kliks.

Still, he didn't walk like a loser. Until, that is, Strika came by and merely swatted him on the aft before continuing her rounds. Then, his face fell, his five optics dimming, and spiraling inward, his hands drooping into his lap.

"You figuring out whether you get to collect or shell out?" Barricade asked. Just to convince Onslaught he was NOT noticing Onslaught's fixed gaze on the femmes.

Onslaught grunted, tearing himself away. "Right. So, you have your mission. Any expenses, send to Blast Off. You might start with that unsavory pair over there." He gestured vaguely to where Barricade could spot his old 'pal' Oilslick bent in conversation with someone he couldn't quite place. "Our business is done." Onslaught pushed himself upright, hands against the table, muttering something else about 'pressing matters to attend to.'

Oh, I'll bet, Barricade thought, but he was too relieved to follow up on that right now. However, he wasn't so awash with relief that he failed to file that away in his 'for future twisted purposes' folder.

*****

The first step in any proper investigation, Barricade knew and felt with full misfortune, was to backtrack over ground already covered. In this case, Skywarp.

He tapped on the door. He'd asked Arcee's permission first, of course. This was going to be an aboveboard legal investigation with NO chance of landing Barricade in the brig, or any other place or position where Onslaught could…uhhhh, have more influence over him. Well, until aboveboard was no longer an option. No sense hanging onto principles if they were dragging you underwater. But Arcee had said yes, and had even given him a tray of snacks (snacks! Like this was the start of some weird role play porno!) for Skywarp, and a concerned murmur that she hadn't seen him in a while and maybe he should consider coming up every few cycles?

"Skywarp?" he said, quietly, through the door, when there was no response to his tap. "Room service?" Primus this felt so lame already! "It's me, Barricade."

A clattering sound that lasted for far longer than it should. The door opened a sliver and he saw one red optic peering out from the entirely dark room beyond. "Barricade?"

"Yeah. Me. See? Brought you snacks." He held up the tray, rolling his eyes at the stupid lacy doily thingie Arcee had put on it. Thank Primus she didn't have a spare of that silly satin apron she made the bartender wear.

"Snacks!" Skywarp cringed behind the door.

"Not scary. Just snacks." Well, the doily was a little scary. " Can I come in? We can eat them together."

The optic squinted around Barricade. "Yo-you're alone, right?"

Barricade nodded holding out the tray so Skywarp could inspect. He felt the red optics scan the doily, the ridiculous little plates, the napkins folded into little geometric shapes.

"Okay." The door pushed open, just enough for Barricade to enter, ducking under the larger jet's arm. One wall of the room was filled with monitors that showed every room in the brothel. That was…distracting. Other than that, the room only held a small chair, a tiny refrigeration unit, and a blanket with the sparkling-cartoon-character Kremzeek emblazoned on it. He searched for some place to put the tray. Skywarp settled himself onto the floor, wrapping the blanket over himself like a hood. Barricade took the hint.

"Soooooo," he said, carefully, "You like this job?"

"The door," Skywarp said, proudly, "is very safe."

"Uhhhh, yeah. Sure looks like it." He held up one of the snacks—some sort of candied…something or other. He and Blackout were still more or less used to the surplus military rats they hoarded at the cube. This looked…freaky. Skywarp took the candied something dubiously, sniffing at it warily, before poking it with his glossa. He flinched back, as if the thing had bitten him, then slipped it carefully in his mouth. "So, you like working here?" Barricade asked. He took one of the things himself. Yeeech! Too sweet. Still, if he reacted, Skywarp would freak out and start popping all over the place. Barricade realized this was probably the longest he'd been in the jet's presence without him teleporting.

"It's not scary." Well, that was high praise indeed. The only other thing Skywarp thought was not-scary was Barricade. Though Barricade admitted to mixed feelings about this.

"So, how do you deal with all that going on?" Barricade gestured at the screens behind him, defying his own BURNING desire to turn and see who was 'facing whom and how.

"Secret?" Skywarp asked. Barricade nodded. "It gets boring after a while. But…boring is not scary."

So…it's all working out then, Barricade thought. Great. "Heard anything from Thundercracker recently, by the way?"

Skywarp stiffened, his optics going wide. "Th—thundercracker? Why? Is he here?" He pulled the blanket over his head. "Will he kill me?!"

"He's not here," Barricade said. Oh, it kinda made sense. "You think he might blame you for the whole jewel thing going bad?"

The blanket-lump nodded. "It was on the newsvids. He's very—VERY—mad."

"Is…that why you haven't left this room?" Another nod of the blanket. Well, that sucked. Blackout said that the flying types NEEDED to fly every couple of cycles—that they went a little crazy if grounded too long. 'A little crazy' added to Skywarp equaled—a very bad idea. Right. Another thing he had to 'handle'. Employment sucked. Reponsibility sucked even harder. He was getting a fraggin' hickey from all of this responsibility.

"You have any idea where you could find him?"

"Why would I want to know that?" Skywarp squeaked. "I don't want to find him!"

Well, that made sense. "Maybe I could talk to him for you?" Riiiiiight. Still, Thundercracker in Onslaught's custody was Thundercracker not roaming the streets screaming for Skywarp's energon.

"He would…be very mean to you."

"I can handle mean." Truth. A red optic peeked out of the folds of the blanket.

"Really? You'd do that? For me?"

"Yeah, well…." Primus, not a fraggin' saint here.

Skywarp lunged, the tray clattering aside, the blanket seeming to swoop down on him. "Thank you thank you thank you thank you," Skywarp babbled, throwing his arms around Barricade, knocking him flat on his back. He started pocking Barricade's face and neck with hot, urgent little kisses.

Oh frag.

First Onslaught, then crazed femmes (and he blamed Onslaught for that, too), and now Skywarp. Popularity, he thought, sucked.


	18. Usual Suspects, pt 2

The second stage in a good investigation involved the classic pincer. First, follow a lead. Second, backtrack a suspect. Simple enough. And if you were smart and/or lazy, AND/OR Barricade, you did them both at once.

"So, Hog," he said, leaning over the counter in the allegedly legitimate front room in Ground Hog's allegedly legitimate spare parts business. "How's business been?" Reasonable question, considering that the one thing missing from Road Hog's little diorama of legitimacy was…customers during the hours of daylight. Small thing, really.

"Fine," Ground Hog said, rubbing a nervous hand across his chromium yellow chassis. "What've you been up to?"

"Not much," Barricade said.

"'Force said you stopped by a while ago."

"Did he?" Yeah, he remembered. That seedy bar. "Has he gotten himself off that fraggin' barstool yet?"

"He gets around. Some." Huh. Hog…covering for Roller Force. Must be because he owed Roller Force something. Another thing for the 'stuff Barricade doesn't have time to deal with right now' folder. Which was several tiers below the 'kinky ideas' folder, but right about the same size.

"Not here about him," Barricade said, watching as Ground Hog's shoulder servos relaxed. "Not necessarily." Aaaaand, tighten. "Trying to track down someone else you might know."

Ground Hog began scrolling through a parts catalog, trying to radiate the illusion that he was a Very Busy Mech Who Didn't Have Time For Idle Chitchat. Would probably have worked better if the parts catalog wasn't at least a vorn out of date. "Don't know anyone you wouldn't know."

Probably about 90% true. "Oh, I know him," Barricade said. "Just have no way of contacting him."

"Teledex," Ground Hog said, flatly. "I'm sure he has a listing."

Actually, Barricade was pretty sure he did not. Swindle operated on a 'don't call me I'll call you' basis after initial contacts—any contact freqs he gave out were dead within a deca. Or hacked so thoroughly they were…embarrassing. There had been that one Special Teams raid, looking for Swindle, that Barricade knew of, that hit a sparkling-garten in Altihex. Screaming sparklings—Barricade's favorite. He was so glad he hadn't been on the intel team for that mission.

"Swindle," Barricade said. Ground Hog nearly fumbled his datapad. Smooth.

"Why do you think I'd know him?"

"Because you do? Can we cut the sludge, here, Ground Hog? I know you. Remember? Our little courier team? Did I ever frag you out then for your little side projects and not-exactly-authorized modifications?"

Ground Hog shook his head, hesitantly, not meeting Barricade's eye. "Didn't think you knew."

"Didn't think I kn—" Barricade cut himself short. Ground Hog, he told himself, wasn't trying to call you stupid. 'Hog was good at one thing and that was figuring out machines. And how to jerry-rig them. He wasn't so hot about figuring out mechs. Or for covering his tracks. "Just need to get in touch with him. By comm or in person. Could offer to meet him here—this seems like neutral territory."

Ground Hog's optics flickered in alarm at the prospect. Pretty much confirming that Swindle a) was a client/customer and b) 'Hog wanted to keep it that way.

"Arrange something," Barricade said, breezily. "Not going to arrest him," he lied. "Just want to talk."

Ground Hog stared at his face for a long moment. Squinted. Scouring his expression for traces of deceit. Unfortunately, while 'Hog had been tearing apart toasters since sparklinghood, Barricade had been perfecting his 'would this face lie to you?' face. "Y-yeah," he said, finally. "I can at least get him to comm you?"

Good enough.

*****

Swindle knew this wasn't a sales call when he commed, but, Primus bless him, he was trying. "Barricade!" he burbled. "Old buddy! Been a long time!"

"Been never, Swindle," Barricade retorted, nodding at a tech, who jacked in the comm tracer to his audiofeed. Vortex frowned at him. Barricade flipped him off. Start out right away not letting the sleazy weirdo think he had the upper hand.

Swindle laughed, smoothly. "Always a first time, though. You do know I give discounts to repeat customers. And a five-for-five deal: give me a fivestar rating on w-Bay and I'll give you five percent off your next purchase." His voice sped up, "Discount does not apply to shipping fees, ammunition, or orders under 50thousand creds." Back at normal pace. "Now, what can I do for a fine, upstanding citizen of Kaon and honorably discharged veteran of the War such as yourself?"

Get me a towel for all this snake oil you're selling? Barricade thought. "Information, mostly."

"Ah, information. The most ephemeral of merchandise." Hint: the price would be high.

Barricade grunted.

"So, what can I do you for, Barricade?"

No time like the present. "Just trying to get some information on Starscream's clones."

Wait. Silence slightly too long. Vortex drummed his fingers agitatedly. Behind him, the comm-tech mech held one hand over his audio, frowning at a readout. Whatever tech Swindle was using, it was running circuits around their tracing program's aft.

"The clones, the clones…. I might be able to help. Any one in particular?"

"Well, a couple. What do you know about Skywarp?"

"What do you have to pay for this quality information?"

Barricade gestured: Vortex handed over a credit-access code. It doubtless had a thousand little worms and such to attempt to trace the money through Swindle's probably very-impressive money-laundry, but they'd be remiss if they didn't at least try. "Got a code. How much you get is how much it's worth."

"We'll start with a hundred." He waited until the access code rang through. "Skywarp is the teleporter. He's terrified of…everything. When he's scared, he teleports. If he can't teleport, he's been known to…ummm, wet himself." Barricade saw Vortex shudder. Well, that explained that little reference of Onslaught's. "Present whereabouts…somewhere in Kaon."

"You know where?" Barricade smirked.

"It would cost you too much." Riiiiight. Nice bluff, Swindle.

"Thanks for keeping an optic on my moneypile for me, Swindle."

"Good customer service is why I have so many repeat customers." Oh he was so slick Barricade almost slipped on the floor. Un-fraggin'-believable.

"Okay, I can probably track him from there. Thanks. Now, how's about Thundercracker?"

"Which one's he?" Oh, right, like YOU don't know. Behind Barricade, Vortex tensed, doubtless thinking precisely the same thing.

"Easy to spot, for you," Barricade said. "Kindred spirit. Complete narcissist." Don't be coy with me, Swindle. Vortex shook his head, frantically. If he could snatch the words out of the audiochannel and back down Barricade's throat, he probably would have.

Swindle laughed. "You're too funny. I love a feisty client." Slight pause. Barricade waited for the price of this one. He figured his backtalk would add…what? 20 percent? He felt fairly confident Swindle had a breakdown chart for such contingencies.

"Uh," Swindle sounded unsure of himself. "I got nothing."

Vortex slammed both of his fists against the table. The comm-tracing machine jumped, sputtered, died. A pile of input rods clattered to the floor.

"What was that?" Swindle asked, on edge.

"That? That noise?" Barricade flipped off Vortex again. "Just…walked into the coffee table."

"Sounded a bit louder than that," Swindle said suspiciously.

"Oh, I had my datatrack collection on it." Quick change the subject. "So, you have no ideas for Thundercracker."

"Sorry, can't help you. And I have another call coming in. Pleasure doing business with you," Swindle rattled off mechanically. "Remember, Swindle, LLC, stands behind every sale he makes. Thank you for your business, and have a great day!" Click.

Barricade rounded on Vortex. "Thanks a lot for that, you temperamental glitch!"

Vortex loomed over him, standing up to his full height, flaring his rotors. "You'd better remember who you're talking to."

"Whom I'm talking to," Barricade corrected, snidely, "Is Onslaught's flunky. And I'm another flunky. A little flunky-on-flunky action." He held Vortex's gaze, though his chassis kept twitching, waiting for a hit.

Vortex controlled himself, with obvious difficulty. "You handled that well," he snapped.

"What? I got Swindle. I got information."

"What you got is shut down."

"Would have been able to go further if someone hadn't decided to give the fraggin' table some sort of shiatsu massage. And I got plenty."

"You wasted a hundred credits."

"I verified that what he says he knows, he actually knows. And that he's got a reason for pretending not to know something."

"He's lying about Thundercracker, you think?" Vortex looked, if possible, even more unhappy.

"Pretty sure. Not sure he's our guy though." Barricade frowned. "If he really was behind the jewel heist, he'd have figured that sooner or later someone would ask him a few questions, and he'd have a story set to go, checked out six different ways."

Vortex swore. Glared at Barricade, swore again. Glared at the comm-tech, who gathered his broken machine and bolted from the room.

"Should think you'd be all relieved and such. You know. Former teammate and all."

"Yeah, except this puts us back at square one. And Swindle…we'd have a way to handle. Mystery Mech, not so sure." He rubbed a hand over his visor. "Onslaught's going to be PISSED."


	19. Usual Suspects, pt 3

_A/N Ooof! I warned you this was a longie!! My next will be short and pervy! Meantime, enjoy the delightful diner scene, yet another accent I can mangle, and possibly the most 'bawwwwwww' ending I have ever written. _

Your Mother's Motherboard was the greasy-wrench favored by unsavory types who considered the wee megacycles of the morning to be primetime. It was way past primetime now, so the group that sat in the corner booth would have the whole place to themselves. Exactly how Barricade wanted it.

Roller Force had been the hardest to convince to come, probably because some pride thing about not wanting to look like he'd do anything for a free meal. Well, Barricade didn't expect he'd actually know that much, but he knew how to cultivate a source, and a square feed on Onslaught's expense account was only fitting. And then on to the other mechs he'd invited. Barricade sat back, stirring his hot energon idly, speculating at each mech's reasons for coming.

Lockdown didn't know Barricade personally, but he'd done his research and figured Barricade wasn't exactly on the sterling side of law and order's shiny arms. Oilslick had agreed because he'd figured Barricade might have been on the tarnished side, but that it wouldn't hurt to do The Man a favor. Mechs like these, Barricade could work with.

"Seriously," Oilslick said, as Lockdown approached the table. "Poncho?"

"Space poncho," Lockdown corrected.

Roller Force rolled his optics.

"What?" Lockdown challenged. "You mechs know nothing about style."

"I know that just putting 'space' in front of a noun doesn't make it less lame," Roller Force said.

Oilslick held up a napkin. "Course it does. Look at my Space Napkin. Watch me wipe my Space Visor with it." He swiped it across his bubble-helmet.

"You gotta problem with me, Oilslick?" Lockdown growled.

"Nah," Oilslick said, smoothly, "Just jealous of your fashion expertise. Space fashion." Roller Force snickered.

"Shut up," Lockdown said, dropping onto the bench next to Barricade, as far from Oilslick as possible. "We here to do legitimate business or what?"

"Or what," Barricade said. "Just a little breakfast of champions here, gentlemechs."

"Courtesy of…?"

"Someone who wants to find out who was really behind that jewel heist in Iacon."

"What? You freelancing or something?" Lockdown asked. Roller Force perked up, sensing an opportunity.

"Or something. Look, the money's good, and all I want is information." He waited. See what they brought him. He was still waiting for Blaster to show, but…well, Blaster was so laid back he tended to consider actual meeting times to be…more or less optional. Rattrap was probably surveilling the area from a distance trying to spot the dragnet. Well, Barricade didn't quite blame him: an Autobot in Kaon had a right to be a little antsy. But Barricade wanted to get his information before the inevitable meltdown.

"Thundercracker," Roller Force said. Which…kinda surprised Barricade. And then he felt a little bad. RF hadn't been that bad during the war. "He was trying to set up a way to fence stuff a few days before it happened. Through 'Hog and…uh, a few other mechs I know."

"What kind of idiot tries to arrange a fence before he's got the goods," Lockdown snickered.

"Someone who wants to unload the merch as fast as possible. You do that if what you've got is really hot and you want it gone before the receiver realizes how hot it is." Oilslick shot a superior look at Lockdown. "Spent a little less time clothes-horsing *space* ponchos and more time on your business, you might know that."

"You don't like how I do business, you don't have to work with me," Lockdown snapped. He paused to flash an engaging smile at the bored-looking wait-femme who slapped a cup of hot midgrade in front of him. She rolled her optics.

"Your business model's just dandy," Oilslick retorted. "For what it is."

"Hey!"

"Ahem," Barricade said. "Matter at hand, please? I don't think either of you two mechs REALLY want to be banned from yet another establishment?" He watched them squirm, gloating. Who knew that the copter's recitation of all the work-gossip would come in handy? "So, anyone actually believe Thundercracker came up with this idea all by himself?"

"Thundercracker probably does." Roller Force gulped his drink. "Convinces himself he knows everything."

"Problem is, as I see it," Lockdown said, "if he's such a boob, he's doin' a damn good job hidin' from the law. He's gotta know they're—you're—" he shot at Barricade, just to show him he saw through him—"looking for him."

"Both good points." Barricade turned to nod at Rattrap, who was sidling up to the table. "And here's our expert. Any ideas where a mech who doesn't want to be found can find himself?" He pushed his drink over to Rattrap. The Autobot looked at it, suspiciously, before taking a sip. Without the war to take the brunt of his apparent need to say 'we're all gonna die!' he'd apparently transferred his worry onto…everything.

"Well," Rattrap said. "Steam tunnels under most of the city. Best bet. You'd have to spend some time to set up some escape routes, but if you know the place, you can stay one step ahead of any pursuit." He spoke with the confidence of lived-experience. "By the way, good to see you in better circumstances, Barricade."

Barricade grinned. "Like…not shooting at each other?" Rattrap grinned back.

"Hate to be the mech shootin' down such brilliance, but if this Thundercrapper is what I hear he is, probably not going to like the idea of getting dirty." Oilslick said.

"And he's a flier. They have to get out every now and then, don't they?" Roller Force added. He kept his shoulders uncharacteristically hunched. Feeling a bit outclassed, even in Lowlife.

"Okay, let me think." Rattrap took another sip. "If he flies, he's got a big range. Probably moves from hidey-to-hidey on a regular basis. Moves at night. Waits for cloudcover, zips up, over, and down. The thing is, if we're talking about the clone I think we are, not going to go well for his ego. You know, the gypsy lifestyle." Rattrap shrugged, proudly. "Not for everyone."

"Right," Barricade said. They'd given him enough that when he added his two-creds they'd think it was based off their information. "So it sounds like someone must be giving him orders. Question, who?"

Oilslick laughed. "Don't look at me. I don't work with noobs. It's Mr Space Poncho who thinks he can cultivate the clueless to a life of crime."

Lockdown snarled. "Won't even waste my time with that second part, on account of we're here under a sort of gentlemech's truce. But to the actual point. Not me. Jewels aren't my thing."

"I like the poncho thingie," Rattrap said, reaching to pinch the fabric. "Looks cozy."

"It's a SPACE poncho," Roller Force giggled.

"Want to clarify," Barricade said. "Not accusing anyone here. Just calling for some brainstorming. And stop making fun of the poncho. Just jealous because none of you can pull it off." He gestured to the wait-femme for another round. "So if it's not one of us, who would it be?"

"Swindle." Lockdown said. "Only one I can think of."

"No," Oilslick shot down, sitting up. He seemed to be getting off on shooting down Lockdown's ideas. "Swindle wouldn't need to arrange fencing for the goods. He has his own off-world system."

"Maybe," Roller Force said, desperate to contribute, "Thundercracker was planning on a double-cross? Or a skim off the top?"

"Possibly," Rattrap said. His paranoid little brain had probably filled in the conversation that he'd missed. He leaned forward so they all had to hunch over to hear him. "Mirage, I hate to say this, is kind of desperate to get his old lifestyle back. I could see him doing that."

Mirage. Right. Barricade filed that one away.

"You lookin' in de wrong direction, dere," a voice said. They straightened out of their huddle.

"Vibes," Barricade said. It was really a question.

"Blaster got de legitimate work to be doin' today. He sen' me. Anyting he know, Vibes know." The red and grey femme settled herself on the bench next to Roller Force. Who couldn't stop staring. One reason he'd never be, really, in the big leagues.

"Right," Oilslick said, deferring. "So, who's your candidate?"

"If you're lookin' for de mastermin' behin' de jewels, it's Starscream hisself you be wantin'."

"Starscream?" Lockdown asked, dubious.

"Makes sense," Barricade said. "Who else would Thundercracker actually listen to?" A round of nodded, if grudging, agreement. Made so much sense he was a little mad he hadn't thought of it himself. He made a note to cultivate Vibes as a source. What? If he had to do this crappy job, he might as well do it right. The less Onslaught got to play his 'you don't want the copter to cry, do you?' card, the better.

"I don't believe it," OIlslick said, then added, "No offense, lovely lady."

"Why not?" Rattrap asked. He finished his (Barricade's) drink and started in on the next, just as the waitress delivered the next round. Barricade took his own, gratefully. They waited for the waitress to recede. "It's his style—big, showy, kinda-mismanaged…." A round of snickers.

"Don't believe it because…really? Starscream keeping himself hidden? THAT's not his style."

"Starscream always was a survivor," Barricade mused. "But Slick's got a point," he nodded at his former teammate. "Starscream doesn't exactly do 'lying low'. Any word on him doing anything else, though?"

"I heard," Rattrap said, "He was taken by the Quints in a double-cross gone wrong. Right now, they're probably doing some sort of freaky tentacular vivisection on him."

"Please don't say the word 'tentacular'," Roller Force squeaked. Oh, great, another item for the 'stuff Barricade can't deal with right now' folder. No one was a fan of tentacles, that Barricade knew of, but watching Roller's widened optics, something…special had gone on. "And…and I heard he was making a fortune betting on arena fights. Rumors in the fighter's pit that some matches ain't exactly legit."

"I've heard Megatron keeps him locked in the basement as a sex toy. Also heard that he's dead, though."

"Both at the same time!" Rattrap breathed. "Necro!"

"I heard he's gone back to science. Someone's producing some serious mods all of a sudden. Kinda…goes back to the arena thing." Roller Force added, "'Hog's been getting some crazy stuff." Lockdown tensed, like he knew something about that, and it wasn't Starscream.

"Since his clones are all more or less bonkers," Lockdown said, "my vote's for insanity. Rumor of a serial killer floatin' around lower Kaon."

"Let's think motive, before we get too Keyser Soze about this, okay?" Barricade interjected. "What would Starscream be doing here, and why would he NEED a) money and b) to stay hidden?"

"Be raisin' anudder army if he tinks he can do better dan Megatron." Vibes laid one elbow back against the booth, her hand close to Roller Force's shoulder. Barricade watched Force's optics keep drifting over to her fingertips with amusement. He figured she must know what she was doing.

"You believe that?" Rattrap asked. "That would mean the whole peace could collapse in an instant."

"He's not that stupid," Barricade said. "What? Look, Lockdown's right—the clones are fraggin' crazy, but none of them that I've met so far are downright STUPID."

"If it is him, though," Oilslick said, "whatever he has planned apparently requires big money. Stupid big money. A mech can live pretty comfortably on the wrong side of the law without that kind of cheddar." He spoke with the assurance of lived experience.

"Oilslick's got a point," Lockdown said, grudgingly. "The amount of creds that job woulda brought in if it hadn't gone sour on him: pretty damn big."

Barricade frowned. "Right." He finished his drink. "I'm out of ideas. Think we all are too." He got that tingle in his wing fairings that only happened when he was about to say something really, really stupid. "Put word out I'm looking for Thundercracker. And there's creds involved for anyone who helps make that happen." He nodded around the table: the message would get out to the Autobots, through Rattrap; the music scene, through Vibes; the drug trade, through Slick; the arena crowd, through Force; and just for good measure, the professional bounty hunters, through Lockdown. Nice coverage. "Thanks for your time. Hundred creds should appear in each of your accounts—Vibes—yours unfortunately goes to Blaster." They nodded, muttering some thanks for the free drinks. No thanks for the money—they figured they'd earned it. That's how this game got played.

The little party broke up, Rattrap scurrying to the service exit, probably to steam tunnel his way to glory. Oilslick and Lockdown had shot each other a mutual glare, truce over, and stomped off in opposite directions. And as Barricade himself left the front entrance, he could hear Roller Force valiantly (okay, desperately) offering to escort Vibes home.

Not bad, he thought. Got a few new leads, and put the word out across the underworld. And the fit Vortex would throw when he saw the expense account was an added burst of delicious. Time to go home, get some action with Blackout before the copter had to go to his stupid job again.

Barricade was pleasantly occupied thinking of things to do to aforementioned copter when a shadow swooped over him. He looked up, just in time to see a fist crash against his head.

*****

Barricade came to, tied to a chair. Which was such a cliché he almost self-offlined. Then again, he thought, when he looked up and saw Thundercracker sneering down at him, how much originality can one expect from a clone?

"You're awake," Thundercracker said.

"You're observant," Barricade retorted. He looked around. Your basic empty warehouse—one tiny door, unpleasantly far away, the room lit brightly by daylight streaming in through a clerestory high above.

"I would not try to play games with me, you pitiful little grounder. You are intellectually far outmatched by the Evil Genius that is Thundercracker."

Barricade snorted. "You're about as 'evil' as the space bunny exhibit at the petting zoo. And I'm not even gonna touch the 'genius' part." Barricade felt confident he could rely on his inborn talent to irritate everyone around him to get him through this. He already suspected the clone's interrogation technique would be as cliché as this whole setup.

Yup. Thundercracker backhanded him. "SILENCE! I am the most evilest genius that ever lived!" The chair Barricade was tied to rocked sideways. That…was not fun.

"Might want to watch that grammar, there, GENIUS," Barricade said wryly, shifting his jaw from side to side. Dammit, the clone had knocked the alignment off. "And the temper," he added as the jet coiled for another strike. Thundercracker released the punch before it happened. "So, and this is because I'm a little too dumb to grasp your master plan in all its geniosity and such, but…ummm, hi! Why'd you kidnap me?"

"You were looking for me." Well, yes. Barricade nodded, expectantly. "I…that is, an insignificant wretch such as yourself has no business besmirching my sterling reputation."

"Your what?"

"Oh, is my vocabulary too refined for a peon such as yourself?" Thundercracker sneered.

"Ummm, no. Not sure how you think you HAVE a reputation."

The jet drew himself up, sucking in a breath."How dare you!"

"No, really. What's this reputation for? The biggest Crime of the Century Gone Stupid? Is that what you're so worried about protecting from…besmirchment?" Wait, was that even a real word?

The jet tilted his not-insignificant chin at Barricade. "I have…no idea what you're talking about."

"Really? Cause Skywarp's kind of told me the whole story."

"Skywarp!? That pitiful coward? I wouldn't trust a word to come out of his vocalizer."

"Why? Since when does 'coward' mean 'liar'? And besides, already got one of those as a separate clone—met him too." Barricade smirked.

"What has that useless coward said about me? It's jealousy, I tell you! Jealousy and envy. Everything about me is superior to Skywarp!"

Actually, Skywarp was kind of quiet. Which was beginning to be a decided improvement: Thundercracker's booming voice was giving Barricade a processor ache. Or maybe it was the after effects of the clonk on his head. Time to stop messing around though. You found Thundercracker, right? Just like you said you wanted…so…now what, smartybot?

"Well, I know you're superior in one respect: Skywarp would never have come up with a plan like that," Barricade said. (An idiotic plan, he added silently).

"Yes, his intellect is too limited to have conceived of such a scheme."

"However," Barricade said. "You have to admit that something went wrong somewhere, right? And obviously, it's not your fault. I'm sure if things had gone according to a plan entirely devised by you, it would have gone flawlessly."

Thundercracker faltered. "Yes, er…You're right. If only I had been in charge, it would have come off perfectly," the blue jet mused, stroking his chin.

"If I were you, I'd be pretty pissed at whoever screwed up my plan," Barricade prompted.

"Perhaps," Thundercracker said, warily.

Hrm. Not quite enough. Might have to press a little harder. And it always came down to motivation. "So, what were you planning on doing with all that money?" Barricade asked, conversationally. "I mean, it would have been a fortune! Surely a mech like you, a GENIUS like you, would have some idea…worthy of your reputation," (Why did he suddenly feel like he was channeling Sunstorm right now?) "with all that profit?"

"Profit?" Thundercracker looked a bit dizzy.

"Oh, a fortune, for sure."

"I…uh, I had plans. Magnificent plans! Plans such as Cybertron has never seen!"

Riiiiiiight. Follow-up hard, Barricade, he told himself. He's unsure of himself. Go in harder. "And especially since it's your reputation being dragged through the mud. We were just talking, back in the diner, and…you're like the laughingstock of the criminal underworld."

Thundercracker sputtered, cut off abruptly, sputtered again. "WHAT?!!?"

"Seriously."

"Who said that? Who dared?"

Too risky. Barricade had a feeling his sudden 'pick up' was courtesy of someone around that table, and he didn't want to risk guessing wrong. "Pretty much everyone," he said, blandly.

"EVERYONE?!"

"Consensus is you're a criminal joke."

"JOKE?!?!" Thundercracker shrieked. "I'm a JOKE?! When I talk to that INFERIOR clone Starscream next, I will rip him a new outtake port! My reputation, slagged! And for what? His stupid plan to—"

CRASH!

Plasglass shattered from the upper wall, spraying down from the clerestory, followed by the loud 'chop chop chop' sounds of rotors.

If Barricade were untied, he'd slap a palm over his face. He didn't need to turn his head to see who it was. Blackout. Spark in the right place; processor, not so much. Slag it, another ten cycles—another TWO—and Barricade would have had Starscream's location and the plan!

Blackout barreled down from the upperlevel right into Thundercracker, knocking him on his aft in a blow that left a long blue skidmark on the floor. The copter transformed, one fist cocked back to slug the clone.

"Gimme one good reason," Blackout roared. His rotors flared with fury. Wow. When he got protective, he got PISSED.

"Get your filthy hands off me, you undeserving PEASANT!" Wow. Apparently when you touched him, Thundercracker also got pissed. Battle of the pissy-bots. Unfortunately, Blackout also had principles. So he was unprepared for the groinstrike. The blue jet spun to one side, heaving the copter off him bodily. Before Blackout could recover, the jet blasted into his vehicle mode and fled through the broken window. Blackout stood, torn between pursuit and Barricade, chassis heaving with rage.

"You okay?" he said, finally.

"Yeah," Barricade muttered. Frag it. He did his best to look grateful.

*****

Blackout opened the door to the cube, excited, as always, after a good shift at work. There was nothing quite as fun, he thought, as putting in good megacycles of work. And it had been nice and quiet tonight, too, and Skywarp hadn't needed him to come down and unplug the sound system at the end of the night (the black jet somehow thought he'd get electrocuted), and oh, it was a good night. He was looking forward to hearing how Barricade's debrief went with Onslaught.

Uh oh. This didn't look right: Barricade lay curled in a ball on the berth, facing the wall. Well, Blackout thought, maybe he's just tired. You know. Long day. Kidnapping. Probably takes a bit out of a mech, you know?

Blackout moved softly on his feet, coding the cube's door shut, and tiptoeing to the berth. He lay himself down behind Barricade, nuzzling against a tire. Barricade didn't move. This was…alarmingly unusual. Normally Barricade was frisky.

"Time for science?" he tried, lamely. Barricade lay motionless, red optics online and fixed at the wall. His mouth was tight. Blackout felt a tremor of nerves. Barricade wasn't…mad at him, was he?

"Copter-lies-there-moaning?" he tried again. Still no response. Barricade had said, once, on the flight home, that he didn't need to be rescued. What if he were really mad about that? Blackout could kinda see it—maybe he did act like he thought Barricade couldn't take care of himself. He couldn't help it. He worried.

"Sorry," he said. "I know you can take care of yourself. Thought I was helping," he said, miserably. He dropped his head to the berth. He felt awful. Barricade was mad at him. It felt…worse than anything. Worse than when mechs made fun of him for being stupid—because this time it was because he cared!

Barricade reached back and grabbed the arm Blackout had been petting his shoulder with, and pulled it around him, hugging the large forearm protectively to his chest. He lowered his head, lips brushing Blackout's fingertips. "Not your fault, copter."

"O-onslaught pretty hard on you?"

Sigh. "Not as hard as he should have been. Just…tired of fucking everything up."

"What?" Blackout blinked.

"Look." Barricade squeezed each of Blackout's fingers. "Seems that after the war, everyone's picked up and started themselves a new life and is just kicking aft. You've got your job. General Strika has her place. And me? What do I have? TWO failed missions."

"You have me," Blackout said, insistently. He tightened his arm around Barricade.

Barricade smiled, a little sadly. "Thanks." He kissed the fingers again.

Blackout felt desperate for some conversation in safer waters. This was kind of scaring him. "Hey, did I tell you? Madam Arcee gave me a quiz today. I had to read a whole page out loud to her. And she said I was making 'amazing progress'. Can you believe it?" He bounced enthusiastically. "And it's all because of you, of course. Makin' me study so hard, so really," he risked a kiss of his own, on a wing fairing, "you're amazing."

Barricade lay still for a long moment, his lips frozen on the copter's fingers, his optics shuttering closed. "Hey, Blackout," he finally said, so softly that the copter had to lean in close to hear him. "She didn't give you a prize or anything, did she?"

"No. She just said the 'amazing progress' thing."

"Copters," Barricade said, turning around slowly in Blackout's arms, "who pass their quizzes get prizes. So," he tipped his head up, all four of his optics focused on Blackout's face. "What's the amazing copter want for his prize?"

"Happy Barricade?"


	20. The Merciless Megatron

_Ever since last summer when I watched Thunderblast (Chromia) spazz over Megatron __in the Cybertron series__, I've been wanting to write an 'encounter' with them._ _I hope you enjoy this at least a fraction as much as I enjoyed writing it. [warning: may contain unusually high quantities of fangirliness ^.^]_

_I reference an scene in Antepathy's Seeker Silliness (oh look, still the same acronym XP), so check that out if you haven't already._

_Thank you Optimus Bob for the wonderful Prowl/Lockdown fluff in the previous chapters. I couldn't help teasing Prowl about that. =D  
_

* * *

**The ****Merciless**** Megatron **_by ToyzInTheAttic_

(mer-sil-es meg-a-tron) n.:

An interfacing act in which the spiker plays the role of the infamous Decepticon leader and the spikee plays either a defeated Autobot or Starscream. The spiker, in honor of Megatron's time-old tradition of establishing authority with a Fusion Cannon Blast to the Face, aggressively face frags the spikee then pulls out at overload so the spikee takes it in the face. This act has also been referred to, usually by pleasure house employees, as the 20-credit-Megatron or 20-C-Meggers. At Cybertron's newest pleasure house, Inamorato, the asking price for this act is considerably higher than 20 credits.

Usage:  
Sunstorm: _Hey Ramjet, what is that lovely glistening fluid in your optic?_  
Ramjet: _It's nothing at all. My last client did NOT just make me a recipient to the __**20-C-Meggers.**_

***

Inamorato was not a place for those easily offended by the perversions of exotic leisure, but the employee breakroom of Inamorato took this to a whole new level. One wouldn't suspect this at first glance. It wasn't anything special to look at, in fact it was nothing like the main interior of the house, but rather grey and stale. It was furnished with the bare necessities such as energon storage bins, office equipment, a basic table with a few mismatch chairs and the writing board. The board was the culprit of these perversions and therefore it was the escorts' favorite feature of the room. Originally intended to list employee chores and shift duties, the board had evolved into the resource of slang names and definitions for popular interfacing acts.

Sunstorm, Ramjet and Chromia knew most of the popular acts by spark, but they needed to stay on the cutting edge of the terms which seemed to roll in off the streets on a regular basis and were therefore always updating the board with newfound knowledge. The Grumpy Space Pirate, The Jiffy Lube, The Crankshaft and The Beached Sharkticon were among many of the classics listed on the board. The newer additions were appropriately named after recent events and incorporated specific bots' names. One was The Wheeljacking which focused heavily of the art of foot perving. There was The Shockwave, which, when not referring to unusually extended spikes, typically meant pulling an all-nighter. Any client who claimed to be a good 'facer but ultimately bumbled through it pathetically was nicknamed The Not-So Hot Rod and any client who just flat out failed to bring the escorts any glint of pleasure was labeled A Coitus Magnus. The most recent name added was that of the infamous Decepticon leader, now Arena Boss, and the meaning to his name was the current topic of discussion among Inamorato's employees.

"I think its current definition is brilliant" sang Sunstorm as he leaned back casually and crossed a jetted foot over his knee. "It doesn't need to be changed. It suits that maniacal marvel beautifully."

Ramjet leaned into the table, talons strumming gracefully on his energon cube. "I agree. I don't think it should be revised at all for the sake of reflecting his current standing in Cybertronian society."

"Ramjet's right… I think" remarked Chromia. She sat upon the counter, legs dangling and heels rapping against the cabinet as she sipped her energon. "Megatron has a respectable reputation now among the masses and is deserving of a respectable 'facing act."

"But all that will change when our esteemed original returns" praised the golden jet. "The Superb Starscream will bring out the boorish bully in Megatron again in no time, therefore restoring the true meaning of The 20-C-Meggers."

Chromia choked on her energon at the mention of her competition. "Starscream isn't coming back" she protested. "If he knows what's good for him, he'll never ever come back. Hopefully the powers that be have finally smiled on us he's been permanently deactivated."

"I don't think he'll ever come back, and I especially don't think Megatron will allow him back into his ranks" said the lying jet.

"He reminds me of that catchy human song" offered Sunstorm with a nudge to his fellow clone's arm "about the tenacious tabby who wouldn't stay away" Ramjet nodded in agreement. Body language was the only genuine form of communication the cone-headed jet had.

The femme threw her arms up in aggravation. "Can we please stop talking about that sleazy afterburner and get back to talking about Megatron?" She slid down from the counter and huffed up to the board, snatching a stylus from the wall next to it. "I personally, am not fond of the 'Merciless' part." She crossed out the last four letters of the rejected word then wrote "ful" above them. "There, now that's more appropriate."

"It's make perfect sense with the definition" chided Ramjet. "Megatron isn't merciful one bit, especially not when he cuddles." A nostalgic smile formed on the jet's face.

Chromia beheld the liar with a reverence she rarely feels for anyone besides Megatron (and maybe Shockwave). "You've…cuddled with Megatron!?"

"Absolutely not" grinned Ramjet, smugly.

The femme dashed onto Ramjet's lap, wrapping her arms around his body and resting her head on his cockpit. "I must cuddle with you if this is true" she said dreamily.

Ramjet drank his energon, indifferent to the desperate creature sprawled over him. "The new definition should have nothing to do with cuddling."

"The magnanimous Megatron typically does not lower himself to cuddling," Sunstorm snapped at the other clone. "You were just given special treatment. Our respectably ruthless leader deserves nothing less than an interfacing act that reflects his rancorous roughshod."

"Impressive vocabulary" complimented Prowl. He entered the room a moment earlier, catching only the last few words of Sunstorm's comment. "Although I'm not sure I want to know what today's discussion is about." He passed by the table, not bothering to acknowledge Chromia's shameless pose on the jet's lap.

"I'm sure Prowl would love to give his opinion on Megatron's signature interfacing technique" teased Ramjet as he tried to peel Chromia's arms from his sides.

"Why would you even think I had an opinion on such a ridiculous matter?" Prowl shook his head in annoyance as he pulled his satin apron off its hanger.

"I know what an insatiable siren such as yourself would have a valid opinion on." smirked Sunstorm as he swirled a talon in his energon. "I'm sure you could enlighten us on the juicy definition of a… "Booty Hunter."

The ninja froze, turning his face away and straining to suppress an oncoming blush. Sunstorm didn't miss a beat. He left the table and swayed up to Prowl, grabbing a hanger from the uniform closet and holding it so its hook stuck out from between his talons. With his make-shift appendage, the jet tugged Prowl by the chin to look him in the face then shifted his stance to cock his hips forward.

"Evenin' kid" spoke the taunting jet, drastically dropping the pitch of his voice. Prowl jerked away, his mouth so pinched it was barely distinguishable. Sunstorm pursued him, wrapping the hook around the skinny neck and pulling Prowl up against his cockpit. "Care to check out my…MODule?" The jet propped his foot on a chair so his crotch is in plain view to the offended ninja.

"Do you mind!?" Prowl shoved the jet off him and stormed across the room. He slammed his apron on the counter next to the sink, his back forcefully turned to his laughing coworkers.

Chromia slid off Ramjet's lap, doubling over onto the floor in laughter. "Ohhh, Prowl, don't be so serious. You know how many would kill to have a sublime dancer dote on them the way Lockdown does for you?"

Prowl froze thoughtfully as he held his apron under the streaming water. Chromia smiled at his predictable reaction. The ninja quickly shook off the femme's words and began vigorously scrubbing his regretfully lucrative uniform. "Why are you here, Chromia? Isn't it your night off?"

She pulled herself to her feet, allowing a final few sniggers to escape, then hopped onto the counter next to Prowl, her aft planted next to the sink. "Yes, it is, but arena shuttle won't be here for another half mega-cycle." She watched with amusement as the ninja futilely worked at a dark stain in the red satin.

"Which strapping mechs are fighting tonight?" questioned Sunstorm as he slid back into his chair.

"Spark if I know" shrugged the femme as she handed a cleaning stick to Prowl. "Probably Waspinator and some scrub. I'm not going there to watch the fight."

Prowl glanced questionably to her. "Then why bother going?" He took the cleaning stick and went back to work on the apron.

"Shockwave called me for some official business" she grinned as she panned a proud look across the seekers' half-interested stares. "He's going to give me my insignia tonight."

"Is that what they're calling it these days?" smirked the ninja, earning himself a kick in the leg from the femme.

"How important" said Ramjet, bitterly. "Our purple badges have so much meaning as of late."

"Well it's better than" she tilted her chin up, pointing the blank spot on her collar "looking like some fraggin' undecided." She elbowed Prowl and gave him a sassy glance. "Not that there aren't a few endearing ones out there."

The stoic bartender ignored her comment and held his apron up for inspection. "Are you sure meeting with Decepticon high command doesn't violate your terms of house arrest?"

Chromia looked over the apron, nodding in approval of its condition. "It's not like I'm meeting with Megatron to start plotting a military coup." She grabbed the apron and signaled Prowl to spin around with a twirl of her finger. She sighed dreamily, a dopey smile spreading across her face. "Mmmmegatron." Prowl rolled his optics under his visor then turned his back to her. She shook some wrinkles from the soaked apron then held it up to the ninja's jet boosters. "I'd sell my soul to be branded by him." Her foot nudged Prowl's leg. "Fire 'em up."

"You cannot sell what you do not possess" lectured Prowl. His boosters blasted the apron with hot air, their noise drowning any potential retort from the femme. Chromia pinched her face at the gust and leaned as far away as possible but kept the quickly-drying silken garment in the air flow.

Blackout entered the room, learning tablet clutched in one claw and stylus in the other. His attention was locked on the small screen, his expression almost pained by the calculations romping through his processor. "I need help." he pleaded over the hum of the ninja's makeshift dryer. He lifted his gaze up to the seekers then shifted it to Prowl, the one member of the room he quickly deduced as the most educated. "Can you quiz me on this stuff?" Prowl reached obligingly for the tablet, simply responding with a curt nod.

"If I don't ace this quiz tonight" the bouncer continued, "Barricade won't let me teach him a new 'facin move." Blackout gazed pitifully to the ninja, refreshing his optics in a way that made Chromia jealous. It took her years of practice to master the 'begging for sympathy' look and here this copter could just do it naturally.

Chromia nudged the ninja again, signaling him to turn off his boosters. "Which move would you teach him?" she asked Blackout while examining the sheen red fabric.

"Chromia, please?" requested the ninja with a glance over his shoulder. "Blackout should focus on his scholastics for the moment." He returned his attention to the tablet but before he could deliver the first question, the femme interrupted.

"How about The Teacher's Pet?" she sniped, ignoring Prowl's irritated groan as she wrapped his uniform over his hips.

"Wha—What's that?" giggled the copter with a dopey half-smile.

"Well" continued the femme while she fussed with the apron ties. "It's rather hard to explain. We may need the" she tilted her head to the jets "winged wonders there to act it out."

Sunstorm and Ramjet exchanged scheming glances then smiled. "Who do you want to roleplay, Ramjet?"

Prowl pinched the bridge of his nose and released a long, frustrated sigh.

"The teacher" replied the liar.

Sunstorm leaned over, snatching the tablet from Prowl's grasp. "So…" he ran his 'Ramjet translator' function, "that makes me the teacher, which means you" he directed to the clone "need to get under the table."

"For the love of Primus" vented the ninja, his face now fully buried in his palm. Chromia finished dressing him than gave him an 'all done' pat to the aft. She scooted out from behind him to watch the jets' charade with an intrigued grin.

Ramjet assumed a humbled kneeling position as Sunstorm leaned back in his chair and spread his thighs apart. The sycophant looked over the tablet and tilted his head, a forced serious expression across his face. "Impressive grades, I must say. You are, by far, my star pupil."

Ramjet slid his talons up the golden thighs, triggering the clone's interface panel to retract. His hand found its way to a partially erected spike and his talons, one at a time, elegantly wrapped around it. "Shall I give you my oral report now?"

Normally a bad pun like that would cue the ninja's exit but he was taken off guard by the normal sentence uttered by the liar's mouth. "That's wasn't a lie" he pointed out.

"That's because he's acting." whispered the femme "now shush."

Prowl shook his head, casting a hopeless glance to Blackout as he made for the exit. "You're on your own with the quiz." He might as well have been talking to a tree because the copter was focused too intently on the jets to even notice the ninja leave the room.

"Now," continued Ramjet, "where was I?"

***

A mega-cycle later, the scene in Megatron's VIP booth at the gladiatorial arena was strikingly similar. The tyrant leaned back in his VIP chair, scoring tablet in hand, his VIP expression serious but relaxed. Shockwave sat awkwardly on his knees, his narrow, single-featured face hovering humbly over his leader's fully erected spike.

"My liege," pleaded the second-in-command "you know I live to serve you, but there are others in your ranks much better suited for these tasks."

The arena boss sneered, clearly unimpressed by his subordinate's excuses. "Do you consider this below you, Shockwave? Has the role of my second gone to your head?"

"No" defended the intel bot with a widening optic. "Of course not Lord Megatron, but you cannot expect me to perform the way Starscream used to."

Megatron slammed his fist down on his arm rest, shattering his empty energon cube. "DO NOT…say that name." Shockwave bowed his head regretfully, his optic shrinking as he anticipated a just punishment. "How many times must I remind you not to mention that name!?"

"Forgive me, sir. That was very tactless of me." He sighed shamefully then transformed into Longarm Prime, a mode equipped with a mouth and a set of hands much more adequate for attending to Megatron's needs. He wrapped his stubby fingers timidly around his leader and began pumping in slow, even strokes.

Megatron relaxed again, dimming his optics and resting his head back. "Now…" sighed the tyrant in a deep rumble "report."

"Agent Chromia will arrive shortly" stated the SIC flatly, straining to suppress his own arousal (an arousal he knew would not be addressed tonight) from distracting him. "Do you still intend for _me_ to adorn her with our insignia?"

"That was the arrangement you made, was it not?"

"Yes, but I feel it may be more appropriate if _you_ present it to her." The stroking pace slowed as Shockwave's processor stumbled onto a resourceful plan.

"Continue" ordered Megatron, making a slight, impatient gesture with one hand.

"Perhaps" ventured Shockwave as his attention shifted from the lubricant tipped spike to Megatron's bored expression, "you could utilize her for your personal needs. She is quite fond of you and a superb craftsbot with…matters such as…these."

Megatron's patience was quickly dwindling. "I meant continue your actions, not words." He ran his fingers across his brow, unable to mask his pent up frustration. "Why must you make this such a chore? I simply require you relieve my tension, not multiply it."

"I only mean to point out that Chromia is much better suited to satisfy you, what with her being an escort." Shockwave couldn't let the issue go, despite his leader's obvious irritation. He hated playing pleasure bot during business hours. He hated playing pleasure bot anytime when he couldn't satisfy his own desires and he certainly didn't want to meet with Chromia with an unattended erection. She would detect it in an instant and no doubt, in her vanity, assume it was her that summoned it, despite his past efforts to prove his capacity for self-control.

Megatron peeked through his fingers down at the pathetic attempts being made on his spike. "Fine" he relented, closing his interface panel and shoving Shockwave off him with a light kick. "Bring her here when she arrives."

Shockwave rose to his feet, transforming back into his Decepticon form. Had he remained in his Autobot form any longer, he would've risked displaying the smugness he felt from breaking through Megatron's stubbornness.

"Are you certain she won't react harshly when asked to interface on her night off?" the tyrant questioned, nearly eluding to concern, but most likely worried about the well-being of his spike.

"I assure you, she will be compliant." Shockwave opened a comm call. "Lugnut, come in. I have a request for you."

Megatron strummed his fingers disdainfully on his arm rest, occasionally flicking energon cube shards onto the floor.

"When Chromia arrives bring her to the VIP room" continued the intel bot. Megatron could hear his loyal soldier through the comm and smiled as Lugnut's indecipherable words were clearly ruffling his SIC. "It is none of your concern what Megatron wants with her, I simply ask you bring her here then return to your duties. Shockwave out."

"She is already here then?" inquired the tyrant.

"Apparently so" answered Shockwave as he positioned himself by the door, safely out of Megatron's reach.

"How is she is able to meet with us if she is serving a prison sentence?" The arena boss carelessly tossed his scoring tablet to the floor.

"She has a tracking device on her ankle. The Elite Guard allows them a weekly recess, provided they operate within curfew. If she doesn't return to Inamorato by a given time, then her tracker alerts the Autobots."

"Sounds like a typically flawed system" Megatron criticized.

"I assure you it is. We could probably use it to our advantage"

"How so?" questioned the tyrant with slight intrigue.

"For the sake of respecting her clients' privacy, the Elite Guard only tracks her whereabouts, not her interactions. Some of her regulars are Elite Guard Officers, high up on the chain of command and potentially guilty of questionable fetishes. Perhaps we could recruit her to gather intel on these matters."

"Blackmail material" Megatron smiled slyly, tapping his fingertips to his mouth.

"Exactly." Shockwave straightened his posture, proud of his own idea despite his leader's lack of praise for it. "She is still a valuable asset to us. I believe she would be willing to bend the rules of client confidentiality if you specifically request her to…provided your sexual frustrations do not hinder your charisma tonight and shatter every elevated fantasy she has fabricated about you."

Megatron's smile dropped and his optics blazed a deadly crimson. Shockwave tensed in regretful stupor, his processor hitching at the very Starscream-like accusation that just slipped from his vocalizer. Luckily the loud thudding at the door broke the tension and prevented the intel bot from being beaten to scrap metal.

"Excellent. Our guest has arrived." Shockwave opened the door then immediately, to Chromia's utter shock, tugged her into the room and quickly exited, closing the door behind him.

Chromia stood at the door, frozen, confused and awkward. Why did Shockwave just flee the scene like sparkling ready to wet himself? Why was she just abandoned to stare stupidly into the back of Megatron's chair? Was she to be branded by Megatron himself? Why didn't Shockwave forewarn of this? She did not prepare for this. How does one prepare for this? For starters, she would've lathered up in her finest of wax, laced her chassis in her most alluring oils and naturally, spent megacycles practicing her lines in front of the mirror. How dare that two-face, giant-spiked motherboardfucker do this to her!?

Megatron glanced over his shoulder, his furrowed brow lifting over one optic. "Did you come here to decorate my doorway or would you like to receive your insignia?" His voice was casual but hinted at irritation.

She took a deep inhalation and approached his chair, bringing herself into his peripheral. "Lord M-Megatron, I apologize…I didn't expect to—"

"You need not apologize, it is Shockwave who is to blame for the evening's altered plans." He rose from his chair and pulled a small purple badge from his cockpit. "Apparently he holds his time in higher priority than mine."

This comment made her want to shrink into oblivion. Her presence was merely a time sink to him. She was nothing but a chore, a nuisance, distracting him from…from whatever it is he does in his VIP room all day. He had more important issues to deal with than her branding. He probably dwelled on how to balance keeping the peace with the Autobots while upholding his revered reputation with the Decepticons. Maybe he worried about what kind of weapons should be allowed into the matches in order add spice to the show yet keep it true to the old form. Perhaps he cared for the minor details, such as what kind of refreshments the concession stand should serve or what color the advertising banners should be.

"But no matter," he continued with a sigh. "I had nothing in particular going on tonight."

Or maybe he just sat around all day, looking pretty and doing absolutely nothing.

"I am honored just to be considered worthy to wear your symbol, my Lord." Oh Primus, did she sound like Lugnut? Would it be bad if she sounded like Lugnut? He really liked Lugnut, after all. Perhaps the Lugnut approach is the right one to take. She would've thought Shockwave would be the ideal mech to mimic in gaining Megatron's favor, but obviously Shockwave wasn't in his good graces tonight.

Megatron approached the femme, oblivious to her inner turmoil as he looked over the badge in his grasp. He rubbed his thumb across it, grimacing slightly as the purple face wasn't as vivid as it should be. He looked her over carefully, searching her body for the proper place to attach the badge. His focus locked to her neck and with a single finger, he lifted her chin and studied the blank spot on her collar.

"Is this where you would like it?"

His voice alone could turn her servos into putty but his touch…ohhh his touch. Once she returned to Inamorato, she was going to coat her chin with layers of resin, forever cementing the traces of oil and specs of black paint that may be left behind.

"Y-yes." That's all she could say. Everything slowed down. The slight tilt he forced her head into, his other hand raising to her neck and placing the shining badge on her. It took only a gently pressing to secure it into place, but a gentle press from Megatron could've sent her chassis sprawling to the floor if she didn't counter it by leaning into his touch. He lifted her chin higher and tilted his head as he analyzed her.

"You will just have to trust that I put it on straight. I do not have a mirror in here."

"I trust you" she breathed, barely audible. He continued to study her, forcing her into a mess of discomfort mixed with arousal. What the frag was going on? His hand shifted to touch the clamps on her wings, causing him to step closer to her. His height was belittling. Her optics only met his waist…well pelvic plating. Not a horrible view. Her senses picked up a familiar scent. Lubricant. Oh dear Primus, was that a spot of lube on his hip? But who's lube? Shockwave's? It didn't smell like Shockwave's. Could it be his? The thought of Megatron's fluids close enough for her to smell did things to her processor that she didn't think were possible.

"These restraints are pathetic," barked Megatron. "I could remove them without the slightest of effort." He ran his fingers along the metal, inadvertently brushing her wings in the process.

Please, remove them, she thought. If it meant he would touch her more, she'd gladly take the punishment from the EG.

"If you do, it'll send an alert to the Autobots." She's not sure how she managed those words, seeing how they were more than three.

"We do not want that," he reasoned. The monstrous hand drifted to her back and he guided her to walk with him. "Come" he spoke firm, but casually. They approached the broad window overlooking the ring where two mechs battled mercilessly and the weekday crowd cheered them on.

"I understand you used to work here during the war?" he inquired.

Small talk? Why? What was happening? The branding was finished, what more did he want from her? Did Shockwave set them up? Was she summoned here…as an escort?

"Yes." Aaaaand, back to single word answers. Some escort she was. The one mech she would pay with her soul to 'face and she couldn't manage the game of Byte Whore.

His hand slipped off her back and clasped with the other behind his own back. He looked down to her, brow furrowing in what? Confusion? Annoyance? Slaggit! She couldn't read his expression from her periphery alone and she sure in pit wasn't going to gawk like a fool.

"For a negotiations bot, you certainly are quiet," he pondered.

Was that a bad thing? She'd always imagined Megatron the long-winded type and therefore allowing him the floor of conversation was a good thing. What did he want her to say? She wasn't about to tell him any stories from her arena days, but she needed to say something, preferable something to steer away from dredging up memories of her employment with the Quintessons.

"I'm just tired…you know, from working a nocturnal schedule." Not bad. That sounded true enough. And it brought up her line of work, a subject she hoped he'd take an interest in.

Megatron turned from the window and eased back down into his throne. "Is it true the Autobot Magnus regularly visits your bawdy house?" He shifted to a comfortable crooked lean.

Frag Sentinel! She didn't want to talk about that imbecile. Ask about her clients, ask about the seekers, ask about the damned interior design, but for spark's sake, don't bring up her biggest turn-off of the millennium. She kept her gaze on the fighters and their aggressive moves must've been the motivating drive for her next comment.

"I don't like small talk," she blurted tactlessly.

The Decepticon leader perked up at this. Chromia could feel his optics burning holes into her back. Slag it all to the pit, he was going to take his insignia back then toss her through the window into the ring. And she would deserve it.

"Then what do you like?" emerged the gravelly voice, breaking the longest, tensest moment of her functioning. Straight to the point. She could work with that, seeing how she was still alive. She turned to face him, her posture straightening.

"You," she confessed blatantly.

A corner of the tyrant's mouth angled up into the makings of a smirk. "What is it you like about me?"

"Everything." She relented to abandon grace for the easy of just telling the truth. It was a surprisingly easy tactic, in a this-is-the-weirdest-conversation-I've-ever-had sort of way.

"Your limited but select words are flattering, assuming they're sincere. I've certainly had my fair share of panderers." He shifted his aft on the seat, a shift Chromia recognized as a reaction to an erected spike. She was instantly drawn into him, assuming the mental image of his spike begging for release was the driving force behind her legs carrying her in his direction.

"And I have done my fair share of pandering, but I assure you, my Lord, my adoration of you is for real."

Megatron's interface panel retracted as if she spoke the magic words to trigger it. And there it was. His spike. Its tip glistening with what could only be the sweetest-tasting fluid in the universe and its size; it was everything she imagined. Even after the Shockwave incident and the go around with the biggest spike of her life, she still believed Megatron's would be more impressive. And it was. She could honestly say it wasn't as long as Shockwave's, but it made up for that in girth. Oohhh, did it ever.

"Come here, Chromia."

She was at his feet in a spark beat, but unfortunately, she was once again stunted for the appropriate thing to say. Perhaps there wasn't anything to say. Perhaps her mouth had only one purpose for the evening. If that were the case she could handle that. She lifted her hands to his thighs, hesitating before actually making contact. Once her fingers felt the seasoned but smooth metal, her core shuddered with a processor-numbing arousal, something she hadn't felt in a long, long time.

"I can't help wonder," spoke the tyrant with a slight and surprising concern, "if it is wrong of me to subject you to this on your night off."

She peered over the taunting spike, her gaze wandering up the broad chassis to finally meet his optics with a questioning gape.

"You look confused," he added. "Does it surprise you that I would bother with such a concern?

She could only nod stupidly.

"Believe it or not," his smile widened with the confession "I have a very small reserve of decency I draw upon once in a while."

She must be dead. And this must be The Well, but how she earned the right to be in The Well was beyond her. Frag it. She'd sort the details out later.

"I always suspected you did, my Lord" she praised.

"Then you don't find it improper of me to desire this from you?" Megatron clasped his fingers together, resting his hands across his broad chest.

She shuttered her optics at him, deciding to let her actions answer his question. She leaned over and closed her mouth around the delectably rounded tip, her glossa lapping up the euphorically sweet fluid. Her wings went limp, as did her shoulders and back. The weight of her entire upper body now rested on her elbows, which were wedged against Megatron's inner thighs. Her delicate fingers twined around the base of his spike. It took both her hands to fully wrap around it. She slid one hand up, her fingers collecting his wetness from her mouth and spreading it down the shaft.

Megatron leaned his head back and moaned gutturally, thoroughly impressed by her artful rhythm of squeezing, stroking and licking. Was this a standard technique she used on all her clients or was he being treated to something more? He was inclined to think the latter. She felt remarkably good, possibly better than Starscream. Sure, that insidious jet had an addicting touch, but with Chromia, the tyrant didn't have to wonder if his spike would be bitten off. This was quite nice. He could get use to this, perhaps finally have a reason to offer his regular patronage to General Strika's renowned place of business. Primus knows he wouldn't pay to interface with Starscream's cheap knock-offs.

Chromia slid her mouth off the gleaning spike, but her hands kept working their magic. She dared peek up to her muse's face, her wings perking up curiously. His optics were dimmed, his processor obviously drifting. What the frag was he thinking about? His tiny smile reassured her that he wasn't displeased, but he became mysteriously quiet. Should she say something? Would that spoil his moment? Was he even having a moment or was she putting him into stasis? The tensing of his body and eruption of fluid from his spike told her otherwise. She gasped as it sprayed across his chassis, regretting that it happened outside of her mouth. Would he be mad about this? Should she have taken it in, preventing the undignified mess on his beautiful plating? She cursed herself for not reading him properly, but then again how could she? He was quite unresponsive.

Megatron relaxed his body, his smirk spreading to a satisfied smile. "You should be proud, Agent Chromia," he purred, keeping his optics dimmed. "You are gifted in many ways." His hands unclasped and one drifted down to brush over her helmet, his fingers teasing her antennae.

Praise and petting…from Megatron. She was speechless. Her processor overwhelmed. Her spark swelled, her chassis warming romantically. She had fought to suppress this side of her emotion for him, but that was impossible now. He was behaving…like a gentleman. She was prepared to take use and abuse from him and lap up every instant of it with gratitude, but only in her most desperate fantasies could she imagine him treating her like this.

"I don't believe I ever properly thanked you for aiding in our escape from the Elite Guard," continued the unpredictable mech, his voice relaxed. His hand slid under her wings and without a shred of effort, he lifted her onto his lap. His optics relit and he looked into her disbelieving face. "I assure you, when the opportunity arises for us to do the same for you, we will act on it."

"Please sir," she breathed humbly "your gratitude is not necessary." Her thighs twitched at the feel of his transfluid underneath them. She was grateful for her flexibility in this moment given the sheer spread required for her legs to straddle his hips. His impressive hands cupped over her hips, engulfing her aft and lower back as well.

"Oh I think it is," he argued playfully, his thumbs trailing down to trigger the retraction of her interface panel. He lifted her up then gently lowered her down on his spike, surprised at how easily her tiny valve accepted him. "That is, if you'll accept my method of gratitude."

She gasped and threw her head back violently, her body arching and shamelessly displaying every elegant curve.

By all laws of physics, his size should've caused her immense agony, but a force greater than science was at work here. Megatron was inside her. His spike impressively restored to another full erection, despite having just overloaded. Was this typical for Megatron or by some miracle was she an influence on it? Her every node greeting him reverently. He felt better than she could have ever fathomed. She was afraid to move. Luckily she didn't have to because he began thrusting, slowly and smoothly. Her body lifted and fell with his motion. She dropped her head down and slid her hands along his chassis, smearing the fluid over his waist.

His rhythm picked and so did his vocalizations. She could feel every vibration from his voice in every inch of her body. Her spark swelled painfully but her valve clenched wantonly. He squeezed her hips in time to his thrusts. His moans drown out her breathy whimpers. She kept her head hung, fearing her desperation would be put on display if he were allowed to see her face. Every lyric of every romantic song she ever daydreamed to swept through her cortex. She wanted to curse herself for this. This was not Decepticon behavior; melting like some sappy little schoolgirl. He didn't need to know how long she dreamt about this; how high a pedestal she put him on; how he unknowingly kept her spirits high during her darkest hours. A true Decepticon found strength in their own spark. He would take his symbol back without hesitation if he knew how dependent she was on him to maintain any semblance of normal functioning.

"Is something wrong?" he exhaled, drifting his hand to her shoulders, his broad finger tracing over the back of her neck while his body continued its motion. Her optics brightened and she lifted her head, putting on her most carefree of facades, straining to focus on his face as her optics lidded each time he pressed her into his steady wave of thrusting.

"No" she gasped, unconvincingly.

Megatron pressed two fingers to the back of her helm, pulling her into him. He leaned over and engulfed her entire mouth into a kiss. She moaned helplessly, shuddering at the taste of his glossa on hers. This was the final, deciding stimulus and her body ascended into delirious overload, sending her moans into lustful cries. Megatron followed her lead and released himself into her, smiling at the feel of her nodes accepting his fluid greedily. Her body bucked, her fingers digging into his chest. His warmth inside her was maddening and his smile against her cheeks was euphoric. She fell limp onto his lap, too overwhelmed to regret breaking the kiss.

She laid there, her cheek resting on his Decepticon symbol, her optics barely lit. She ventilated shallow enough to mimic a state of deep stasis. His spike lightly pulsed in her valve, still large enough to tease her nodes, causing her chassis to lightly twitch.

"When are you expected back at the pleasure house?" purred the former gladiator.

His voice snapped her back into reality…if she could call this reality. Was this pillow talk? Were they cuddling? His fingers teased over her wings and his other hand trailed up and down her leg. She called that a yes.

"Couple megacycles" she whispered through her daze. "But I'll probably go back early…once we're…finished." She cringed at her ineloquent words.

"Are you in a hurry?" pondered Megatron, tilting his head to look down at her.

"No" she replied quickly. Spark no. Someone stop the clock, extinguish her spark, club her in the head so these feelings were permanently locked on her sensor net, just please Primus, don't let this moment end.

"Good. I have an assignment for you." His tone was gentle but flat.

Her head shifted to peek curiously up at the gorgeous face. She would do anything he asked. Anything. As long it meant the cuddling wouldn't stop.

"How deeply do you value your Autobot clients' confidentiality?" Megatron met her optics with a commanding look. She shrunk a little but her spark welled with intrigue.

"How deep would you like me to value them?"

***

The following evening at Inamorato wasn't anything out of the ordinary. The employees ambled through their preparatory chores, the bouncer mopping the floor, the bartender stocking his shelves, the jets preening in the breakroom. Sunstorm halfheartedly inquired about where the third escort was and Ramjet could only shrug, saying he _didn't_ suspect her shut up all day in the Exotic Room, posing in the front the mirror while listening to an endless playlist of romance. He also pointed out how she _didn't_ barely make curfew last night and certainly _didn't_ float into the breakroom and update the board. The lying jet said he had no idea how the definition of Megatron's 'facin act evolved from a perfectly legible written language to a colorful collage of puppy love, spelt out with sketches of hearts, butterflies and a sprinkling of glitter. Sunstorm looked the board over like it was an abstract painting. He concluded the new definition of 'facin with the illustrious Megatron could be safely labeled as the relished relief one felt from living to tell the tale.


	21. First Date part one

_A/N Hey, me again. Sigh. I should find a Blackout/Barricade twelve-step group, I think. Cutesy stuff here. First half today, second tomorrow. _

**First Date** by antepathy

Blackout snuggled Barricade against him, grinning at how the smaller mech didn't even put up his usual weak protest for form's sake about it. Barricade seemed unusually relaxed tonight—must be, Blackout thought, a result of the copter passing all of his quizzes lately. He didn't think he'd interfaced with anyone so much in his life. Much less someone as awesome and hot as Barricade. So, Barricade was in a good mood, and maybe it was time to ask him.

"Hey, uh, Barricade?" He felt the smaller mech's face shift, from where it had nuzzled against his shoulder.

"What, rotor-butt?"

Oh good, he was in a really good mood. He almost never used terms of endearment like that. "Why don't we go out on dates?"

Barricade twitched back, as though Blackout had asked him about venereal diseases. "Dates! Dates are for losers."

"They are? But Ramjet was saying they were really important to keep a relationship going."

Barricade flopped onto his back, his arm tires whumping on the metal of the berth. "Ramjet," he said, slowly, "is a liar."

"Yeah, I know, and what he actually said was that dates were trivial and stupid and destroyed relationships." Blackout shrugged. "So what he was really saying is the opposite."

"And Ramjet's expertise?"

"He knows about stuff like this! And he's totally romantic. He once apparently had Megatron himself cuddle with him an entire night."

That was a singularly nauseating image, Barricade thought. Another slaggin' problem peacetime brought with it: all this social gobbledygook. He and the copter had met during the war, shared a few laughs, a few recharges, interfaced like crazy. Simple, straightforward. None of this 'romantic' (read: stressful and pointless) nonsense. "Look: the only thing dates are good for is if you're trying to plug in with someone. We're already interfacing, so…dating would be redundant." QED.

"But it sounds like fun! Doesn't it?"

One thing was damn certain: the copter wasn't going to let this one go. "Not really, but if you want to discover for yourself how boring this date thing is, I'll play along." Wow, Barricade, he told himself, that was pretty ill-graced, even for you. Sometimes he wondered why the copter didn't just haul off and punch him in the face.

Blackout did…just about the exact opposite: he bounced, and then rolled to grab the datapad he had stuck to the side the berth. "I knew you'd say yes! Awesome!"

"Awesome?" Barricade pushed himself up onto an elbow.

"Yeah, the first part of the date is you have to ask the other mech out. So we've already done that. AND you've accepted. We're like 15 percent done already!"

Fifteen perce—what? Wait, he didn't really want to know. "Great," he said, noncommittally.

Blackout brought the datapad's screen up. Which told Barricade he'd been planning this whole thing for a while. Sneaky copter. But one thing Barricade could respect was sneakiness. "There's a really cool exhibit about meteorology at that museum in Iacon we were at. Remember that?"

Ugh, talk about places he didn' t want to remember. Copter'd be asking to visit old battlefields next.

Blackout went on. "Look, it's got like interactive stuff. A Devastator Winds chamber and stuff like that."

Barricade swiped the datapad from him. "That's the exhibit for sparklings," he said, derisively.

"Yeah but…I'm not real smart. So I figure I could maybe understand this one, you know, and not feel too stupid."

Of course, Barricade thought. Nothing stupid about a giant helicopter going through an exhibit meant for mechlings who weren't old enough to feed themselves. But he held back from snapping that remark out.

"You're not stupid, Blackout," he said, his voice edgy. He hated how the copter said that. Anyone else, calling himself stupid would be a ploy, a reason to get away with things. He could understand, and even play along with that. But Blackout was dead serious: he thought he was the stupidest mech in Kaon. How he could think that after a few minutes' conversation with, say, Lugnut, was baffling. "Look, they have a normal exhibit about it—why can't we go to that one?" Barricade blinked in surprise. Somehow, part of his OS had tacitly accepted that a) they were going on this ridiculous date thing and b) they were going to the museum in Iacon. It's like whenever he was with the copter, his cortex fritzed.

Blackout's lower lip jutted out. "Don't, you know, want to bore you with you having to 'xplain stuff to me."

"When have I ever--?" Okay, scratch that. "Since you've been studying, have I ever done that?"

"Well," Blackout's glossa protruded from the corner of his mouth as he considered. "No, but…I just don't want it to happen, is all." His thumb flipped the datapad back to the sparklings' exhibit. "This looks like more fun, though," he said, wistfully.

Yup: Barricade's processor was on terminal glitch whenever the copter looked like that. "Deal: we go to the regular exhibit for a megacycle. Just one. And then we can go to this one."

The copter's face lit up. "You're so smart, Barricade," he glowed. "I can do that. We can do that." He pulled Blackout against him roughly, plopping a kiss on Barricade's head.

"Hey," Barricade said, tilting his face up. "Kinda missed the targeting with that kiss there."

Blackout grinned down at him, and pulled him closer, into a proper kiss. Barricade purred, one hand roaming across the copter's broad chassis. He winced, jerking his hand back.

"What's wrong?" Blackout said.

"Nothing," Barricade responded, sucking his talon. He took it out of his mouth, looking at it again. "Cut it on a sharp edge, there."

"Sorry!" Blackout took the injured digit into his own mouth. "Guess I get roughed up every now and then."

"No big deal," Barricade said, running his other hand over the rough sharp edge. "Just, next time you get detailed, have 'em buff it down for you."

"I, uh, I've never been detailed before." The copter ducked his head, shyly. His beetled brow furrowed as he studied Barricade's talon.

"Never?"

"No. During the war and such, you know, just went through the regular washrack and protective spray."

"Frag that. On this date thing, we are so getting you detailed." The thought of Blackout glossy with a new wax job made his sensor net tingle. Again. Already.

"But the museum…?"

"We can do both. They've got to have detailers in Iacon, as shiny as those damn bots were at the museum last time."

Blackout's optics widened and he pulled Barricade into a crushing hug. "So awesome! How 'bout tomorrow?"

Frag. Reality crashed down, harder than Megatron's aft. "This whole date thing sucks," he muttered, pushing away at Blackout's chassis. "You know Onslaught's gonna call just when things get fun."

"Not tomorrow. Already asked him." Blackout preened at his own smarts.

"You what?"

"Told him I wanted you for a day, you know, and he said he'd pester Vortex for the day instead."

Onslaught…being nice. No, this wasn't suspicious at all. Either the old buzzard had unrusted his capacitor or he had something sinister in mind. No question: sinister.

"Did you talk about anything else?" Barricade tried to keep the edge from his voice.

"Yeah. He wanted to hear about the whole Thundercracker thing."

Barricade went rigid. He'd lied his hot little aft off at the end of his report, managing (somehow, amazingly, stretching the truth so tightly it squeaked) to gloss over the copter's involvement. The last thing he wanted was for Blackout to get on Onslaught's very long slag-list for having screwed up an operation. "And you told him…?"

"I told him what you told him. You know, the truth."

Sometimes Barricade really wondered how Blackout could be so deluded. It's like he was impossible of thinking of anyone being less honest and straightforward than himself. Not that it mattered, though, Barricade thought: I'm dead. Onslaught is going to murder me for falsifying a report. "Oh, yeah," Barricade said, weakly. "Uhhh, anything else?"

Blackout shrugged. "He said he wanted to talk to you later, but that it could wait." Blackout ran one thumb over Barricade's upper arm tire. "He told us to have an awesome time."

Right: Onslaught would say 'awesome'. On second thought, he might, with extreme irony. As in, enjoy your date because I'm going to let Vortex take you for a little ride…before I set you on fire.

Blackout frowned. "You okay?"

"Yeah." Barricade faked a smile. "Tomorrow, right?" Think, he told himself, of the copter detailed. Oh. That helped. That helped a LOT.

"Yeah! It'll be so much fun. I can't wait. I wish it was already tomorrow."

Barricade pushed anxiety away: Blackout looked so excited and so pleased with himself for his foresight that it was hard not to be infected by it. He pushed all of those unpleasant thoughts in his 'less important than coptersex' file.

"You," he said instead, throwing one thigh over Blackout's hip, "had this whole thing planned, didn't you?"

Blackout ducked his head. "Except for the you-going-along-with-it part. Thought you'd be tougher."

Yeah, Barricade thought. Me too.

*****

Blackout had done better with the regular exhibit than he'd thought—they'd stayed there a megacycle and a half before he thought to check his chrono. He'd kept close to Barricade, asking him how to pronounce some words, and had taken Barricade's explanation of convection into a treatise on flying over reflective surfaces and wind shear. And Barricade had had more fun than he really wanted to admit at the sparkling's exhibit, dropping water into a vaporizer and controlling the heat and airflow to try and create fluffier clouds than Blackout. He'd only had to glare, once, at an Autobot school group staring at them, but that could be just as much for the faction symbols they still wore as for Blackout's innocent enjoyment of the exhibits.

And Blackout was pretty…stare-at-able at the moment, his black armor polished to a high gloss, touch up paint gleaming on his olive green facial spires. And Barricade tried really hard to control himself from staring at the rotors, whose inner blades had been colored cheery red and buffed to a shine.

Barricade knew Autobots were uptight and would probably take offense at two mechs interfacing in their museum. Another reason he knew he'd picked the right side in this war: Prissy Autobots.

Even so, he had to admit (and he hated it so he'd never actually admit this out loud) that this date thing was pretty cool. Though…he couldn't wait (as in, seriously, he wasn't sure he'd make it) to get the copter alone.

Blackout must have felt a little similar—as they boarded a slidewalk outside the museum in the sunset, the copter paused, pulling Barricade back against him. "Had so much fun," he said, resting his head on top of Barricade's, his arms around the smaller mech's shoulders. Which did not help Barricade keep his libido in check.

"Yeah, well, now we've got a long trip home," he grumbled.

"I can fly you," Blackout offered. Barricade frowned. He hated being flown. Felt so…helpless. Dangling from the copter's arms like that over the city, everyone probably looking up at him and pointing. Felt stupid. But…he didn't want to tell the copter that, because then Blackout would feel retroactively guilty about every time he'd ever flown Barricade anywhere. Probably even that time Barricade had been in stasis lock.

"Nah," he said, instead. "Nice night, so, let's walk or roll at least partway."

The copter squeezed his shoulders, flattening his door wings against his massive chest. "Awesome!" They jumped off the slidewalk, toward the road that led back to Kaon. They walked along in silence for a while. Barricade began to feel like a jerk for making them walk. And even more like a jerk because…frag, the copter was hot. The last rays of Cybertron's setting sun cast rosy-orange highlights over Blackout's newly glossed chassis. Barricade started to feel stupid and awkward. And horny. He started scanning for an alley he could tug the copter into, at least for a little makeout session. Barricade's hands felt magnetically drawn to the copter's shiny armor. Rowrf.

"Hey," Blackout said, suddenly. "You think on the way home we could sto---!" His whole body went rigid, arching up as if a giant fist punched him in the back. He collapsed on the ground.

"Blackout!" Barricade's capacitor stuttered over itself in a sudden rush. Frag, Barricade wasn't a warrior. And this was Iacon, which Sentinel Magnus had just spent a small fortune on advertising as 'the Safest City on Cybertron.' Should have seen that as the half-afted propaganda it was. Should have noticed you haven't seen a single security mech at the very least. Sentinel Magnus probably spent all the money on advertising and waxing himself up for the spots.

He threw out his (pitiful) spoke weapon, lunging toward Blackout. Barricade saw a handful of shapes blob out of the darkness of an alley. A sudden pain in the back of his head, smashing his doorwings flat against his shoulders. White stars in his A/V. Then.

****

Barricade's optics blinked back on to a faceful of pavement, colored red by sensornet alarms flaring across his HUD. OW, he thought. Then…something about Blackout. His audio kicked on to the sound of scuffling and huffing and the loud drag of metal against plascrete. Blackout, he thought, and his sluggish processor fed him the horrible image of the copter arching up, rigid, his optics going wide, hands curling as if to tear the air. Frag. Barricade shifted his head, slowly, lifting it just enough that it wouldn't scrape noisily along the ground. He saw…feet. Three, four pairs. Struggling to lift something heavy onto a flat loader, like you find in a warehouse. A shape drooped down into view—the end of a rotor, inner blade painted bright red. Frag oh frag. They were taking Blackout!

A thousand questions boiled across his processor. Who? Where were they taking him? WHY? If there was ever a mech that got along with everyone, it was fraggin' Blackout. Even Onslaught noticed it. They couldn't be after him for money—slag, they had enough to get by and then some, but not enough to risk this kind of thing for. And what they had, split four ways? Pitiful. No, this wasn't about money.

Come on, Barricade, he yelled at himself. Not slaggin' naptime. And not really the time to lie here and ruminate on who might have a grudge against Everymech's Friend. And do not, he told himself, do not even begin to think about the fact that if you'd just swallowed your slaggin' pride and let him fly you home, this whole thing would never have happened.

His optics ached as he saw a trickle of pink energon splatter to the ground. Blackout! Slag he was really hurt! Get up, he told himself: DO something!

Think, you stupid mech. No orders from on high, and if you're so smart, figure it out. Okay, all right. Mission: retrieve Blackout. That was the priority. Everything else could/would have to wait.

Surreptitiously, he gathered his weight onto his hands and knees. They weren't really looking at him. Almost like they dismissed him. Which pissed him off on one level, but on another made his life easier.

They finished loading Blackout—and Barricade tried really hard not to think about why the copter hadn't even made a sound this whole time (he was spending a lot of this time telling himself what not to think)—and were heading for the front of the flat loader. Leaving him, taking Blackout—Primus knew where. One of them stowed what Barricade recognized as a shock-rifle in the cab of the flat loader, and came back to check the tie-downs stretched over Blackout's limp frame. Which Barricade forced himself not to look at.

Barricade saw his opportunity when the mech had his back to him: he lunged , tackling his waist, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Two of the other mechs stopped, cursed, and ran around the side of the loader to help.

"What the--!" the mech cried out, one shoulder hitting the loader as they rolled. "Fraggin' hell, mech! Thought you said he'd be out for the count!" He brought both his hands down on a hammer blow across Barricade's shoulders. Barricade grunted as the metal of one of his doorwings bent. He raked his claws over the mech's back and side, clawing his way up the mech's body toward the face.

He paused, one hand behind the mech's head, the other reared back. No. This mech was not familiar at all. He took a mental snapshot for later. Because, oh yeah, there would be a later. Onslaught would probably object to Barricade rummaging through the databases, but what Onslaught didn't know wouldn't hurt…Barricade.

Before he could land his punch, the other mechs hauled him off—one landing a solid kick under his grille that blanked his sensor net for a klik, the other heaving him by his wing fairings. Barricade clawed at the mech he'd had pinned, who responded with a smirk and a hook punch to the side of the face. Another kick, right to his central line, folded him in half, purging his tanks.

Oh , awesome, Barricade. In the history of improvised weapons, leave it to you to pull out the 'vomit' card.

The mech he purged on shoved him away, furious, and rolled to his feet, swiping angrily at his spattered armor.

"What a slagtard," the mech who had him by the fairings sneered. "Told us he was low-voltage in combat, but seriously."

"Hey, shut up," the other mech—the first kicker, said. "Just do your job and don't spill anything." He kicked Barricade viciously in the ankle, denting his plating and driving against a control cable.

"Ha ha," said the third mech—the barfed-on one. "Spill. I get it. Frag," he flicked the gloop off his fingers. "Slaggin' lubestain won't figure anything out anyway." The second, who had his fairings grunted assent, and flung Barricade back, disdainfully, as though he were trash to be tossed as far away as possible. Barricade staggered back against the wall of the building, tripping over his own feet and the injured ankle, and falling heavily on one hip.

The mechs laughed as they mounted the flat loader. "Let's get this junk to the…," one muttered, as they got in. Barricade pulled himself upright just in time to see the taillights mock him in the distance.

*****

One thing the slaggers hadn't counted on was that Barricade wasn't quite as stupid as they were. Yeah. 'Knew he was low-voltage.' You know who I am, then, Barricade thought. Which means this wasn't about Blackout at all. This was about him. Thin evidence, but every part of him that rooted itself in paranoia vibrated with the idea that this was really all about Barricade. Which made Blackout a victim.

Fan-fraggin'-tastic, Barricade, he thought. You are singlehandedly ruining that copter's life. First you almost get him in the brig like…forever. Now, he's had the coolant shocked out of him, on high power. And dragged somewhere for…Primus knows what else. Ransom? No. Not enough money. Unless they knew what he did for a living and tried to get some info in exchange for the copter….

Barricade refused to go there and even ask the question. He was afraid of the answer.

His best bet was not to let them ask that question either. And they hadn't counted on one other thing: General Strika's obsessive planning. Team Chaar, she had insisted, had mutual location tracking beacons. That was how Blackout had found him when Thundercracker had taken him—the copter had finally confessed, in a teary apology that had made Barricade feel bad he had even asked. Copter apparently felt guilty about everything.

Barricade activated the tracking codeware. Blackout wasn't far. Good. He dropped into his vehicle mode, wincing as the damage from the beating got rubbed raw by the transformation. One of his tires had flattened—torn of the rim, its pressurefluid spraying on the gears as he limpingly rolled after the beacon.

They had him in a garage. Barricade clambered up the dumpster at the side of the building, peering in through a skylight to get the best visual on the battlefield. When he saw a chopper-bin, his capacitor cut current entirely. He'd seen those plenty of times in Ground Hog's place—bins for sorting out the various parts of salvaged mechs. No question the intention here. He had to work fast. He wasted a half a klik longing for the war when intelligence assets had time to prepare appropriate tactical solutions. What little time he had was running out as they dragged Blackout—still unconscious—onto a repair frame.

He hit his comm. //Skywarp.//

//Aaaaaahhhh! Who is this? Why are you calling me? Is this real? Am I insane? What if I'm insane? Will I even know?//

Well, right freq. //Skywarp, it's me: Barricade.//

//Barricade? I thought you weren't scary.// He sounded dubious now, as if he had misjudged Barricade's scary quotient.

//Yeah, well, sorry for comming you without, you know, being scary. I really need your help.// He hated saying that. Hated saying it to Skywarp. Only one worse to say it to would be Onslaught, whose mouth would doubtless spiral into curlicues at the edges underneath his battlemask.

//Need…MY help?// Even Skywarp thought it was ridiculous. Great.

//Look. Got a question. When you do your pop thing, right?//

//Warping.//

//What?//

//Sunstorm told me to call it warping, because it sounded cooler.//

//Oooookay. Whatever. Look, when you…warp…can you take something with you? Something big?//

//I guess so. How big?//

//Blackout big.//

//B—blackout's in trouble?//

//Yeah, and--// Barricade cast a nervous glance through the skylight. The darkness protected him from discovery. A mech was tying the rubberized apron around his middle, and heading to the tool table. //Kind of running out of time.//

//You want me to take Blackout.// Something in Barricade's voice must have gotten through to the jet.

//Yeah.//

//Where?//

//Wherever.// Anywhere was better than right here.

//But….//

Calculated risk, but Barricade was running out of options only slightly faster than dignity. //Skywarp,// he said, //I'm scared for Blackout.//

//Scared? You?//

//Yeah.// He wished he had to act more to get the quaver in his voice.

//I'm on shift in 10 cycles. When do you need me to do this?// Whoa, sounded like he had a rudimentary grasp of tactical planning. Unfortunately, not really necessary right now.

//Now would be good.// Now would be real good. He paused, offsetting his targeting to adjust for the copter's elevation. //These coordinates.//

//O-// POP! //kay.// Skywarp appeared, landing on top of the copter's limp chassis, stumbling along the curve of the chest plate, before he bent down, threw his arms around the large mech and then POP! Disappeared. The two mechs in the room—first kicker and the chopper, who had been in the loader when Barricade tried his stupid attack (what the Pit had he been thinking? Only about Blackout dripping energon and being…flaccid, that's what), barely had time to react. First Kicker managed to pull a weapon but by the time he'd targeted, Skywarp was gone. With Blackout, thank Primus. Leaving only a worrisomely large puddle of pink energon on the repair frame. Barricade released a held vent of air. Blackout was safe. That's what mattered. The rest…didn't matter. With any luck, the little robocreeps wouldn't figure it out until he was gone.

He turned, carefully, from where he crouched on the top of the dumpster. Just jump down and roll out, Barricade. Too easy.

Right. His injured ankle gave as he was bracing for the jump, sending him tumbling off the edge with a crashing clatter of his frame against the bin, the wall, the ground, a pile of metal pipe of various lengths someone had stashed nearby (really? Barricade, when your luck runs out, it runs out fast enough to Doppler shift). He scrambled to his feet, tripping over the rolling pipe and firing signals of pain up his damaged ankle. He fell over again, clutching at the wall desperately. Frag, he swore. Frag frag frag frag frag (he was so going to get a thesaurus when he got home).

He staggered to the mouth of the alleyway, optics aimed at the ground—if he tripped over one more slaggin' pipe he was going to offline himself in pure humiliation. Something prickled his paranoia. He raised his head, slowly, and looked right into the barrel of a gun.

"Thought you said he'd never figure it out," the mech behind the gun said.

"Shut it." Another mech came up beside him, bringing with him the scent of cleanser. The one he'd purged on. Well, at least he smelled lemony-fresh for a beatdown, Barricade thought. Nice to know he cared.

"Let me go," Barricade blustered, "And it's over. I'll forget it ever happened." As if. But these guys looked pretty dumb.

"Uhhhhhh, no." The muzzle of the gun jerked up. Okay, maybe not that dumb.

"And if we don't let you go?" Cleanser-scent sneered, folding his arms over his sparkling clean chassis.

Barricade's lip curled in a snarl that was less posturing than they'd ever know. "You live to rediscover regret."

Cleanser laughed. "Gonna purge on me again?"

The gun mech frowned. "Seriously, what are we gonna do with him? This wasn't covered in our orders."

"Shut it!" Cleanser snapped. "We'll hold him till _we_ can figure it out." He grabbed for Barricade's arm. In better times, Barricade would exploit the crack in the team, there, but…he was getting all grabby. Barricade didn't like grabby.

Barricade ducked, coming up with a punch to the midsection. He probably would have done a bit better, too, if the gun one didn't apply the butt of his weapon to Barricade's arm. He staggered to one side. Get out! He yelled at himself. Just go! He dropped hard on one side rolling over. Cleanser grabbed for his ankle as he tucked himself into his vehicle mode. Barricade yelped, but, frag. Could get that looked at later.

The parting shot that punctured his rear windscreen, though, was more of a problem.

****

TBC (tomorrow!)


	22. First Date, part two

Blackout stirred. "Mmmmuuuhh," he said, his optics slowly warming up to online. Something soft was under him. He was lying down. He had about four alarm systems in yellow, and could feel a hoseclamp around a line in his arm. These pieces of information filtered to him slowly. He reached out with one hand, feeling for where Barricade normally snuggled. Nothing. "Barricade?" He tried to push up to a sitting position. "Where's Barricade?" He heard a pop sound that he thought should sound familiar.

A large hand pushed him down. "You rest now, Blackout. Ve find Barricade."

"General Strika? But…?" Confusion clouded his optics. Where was he? It looked like Inamorato. But…but they had been in Iacon. Walking home and then…. "Where's Barricade?" he repeated, miserably.

"He-he told me to take you and go," a small voice came from behind Strika's bulk.

"And you did? And you left him?" Blackout swatted away Strika's arm. His processor swam, but… he could deal with that. The idea of Barricade all alone…anywhere, hurt way more. He tried to kick a blanket off his legs. The yellow pattern hurt his optics.

Blackout hit his comm. Nothing. His claws cut into the fabric of the blanket with worry.

"Blackout," she said, warningly.

"Sorry, General," Blackout said. "Your policy. We don't leave mechs on the battlefield."

"Blackout," she said, more commandingly. "You lay down. Ve vill find him. Until zhen, you tell me vhat happen."

"I don't know! We were walking along in Iacon and then…something hit me and then I was here."

"Valking." Strika shot a look at Skywarp over her shoulder. He quailed.

"I-I told you," Skywarp said, meekly. "it was a garage or something. I just went where he told me." He clutched at one wing. "Please don't hurt me!"

"Vere vaz garatch?"

"He just gave me coordinates off where he was. I don't know!" Skywarp started vibrating.

"He was nearby! And you left him!" Blackout sat up, swinging his legs toward the ground, then stopped, the entire room swirling with vertigo.

"I did what he said," Skywarp's voice was very, very small.

"Barricade can take care of himzelf," Strika said. "You know zhat."

"Against what took me down?"

"Believe it or not, Blackout, I have zent Lugnut looking for him." Blackout's shoulders lost some of their tension. Lugnut would handle it. If Lugnut could find him. "Lugnut has ze coordinates from my beacon on life-veed," she added.

"Sorry," Blackout muttered. He dropped his optics to the blanket. He must be in one of the employee's bedrooms—but who would have a pink and yellow Kremzeek blankie? His large hands clutched helplessly at the blanket's folds. "I just feel…"

"Yoozless, helpless? Yes, Blackout. Ve know." Strika's hand patted him on the head. "Barricade vill be vound. And ve vill get to ze bottom of zis. Whoever attacked you attacked one of uz. Ze war may be over, Blackout, but ve are ztill a team."

"Yes ma'am," he said, quietly. "Thanks for sending Lugnut. I'll work his shift for him to make up for it."

"Right now, zoldier," she said, straightening up, "You need rest. Inamorato can get by with Brawn for vun night."

Blackout was struggling to say something else, just to try to keep a conversation going so his mind didn't take him back to the big gap in his memory—which really scared him. He didn't like not having any idea what happened. He was sick with worry about Barricade. And he felt completely helpless.

They heard an approaching dual-engine. "Lugnut?" he said, hopefully.

"Maybe," Strika said, lumbering to the door. Blackout knew she was lying to him. It was Lugnut and she didn't want to say in case he had bad news. Blackout pushed to his feet. Skywarp squeaked, looking up at him.

"Gotta find out," Blackout said. "Help me to the door?"

Skywarp shrank back, but then reached, tentatively, to take Blackout's arm. "I'm sorry," he said. "I just did what he said. I thought that was…you know."

"Yeah. You followed orders, Skywarp," Blackout said. "Nothing to be afraid of there. Good soldiers follow orders. Just…Barricade's a pretty bad commander sometimes." He didn't mean that in a bad way. Barricade always set himself up for danger. It worried Blackout.

He just made it to the door when it pushed open in front of him. Lugnut came in, carrying Barricade in his alt mode. His rear window had been punctured and scorch marks extended over the roof and rear quarterpanels.

Blackout made some incoherent sound of alarm and worry. Barricade! He looked…offline. Oh if only I hadn't wanted that stupid date, Blackout thought. I'm gonna hate meteorology forever. "Zis is a battlefield," Strika said, striding back into the room. "Behave like zat!"

"Yes, General!" Blackout straightened up, trying to stiffen his lip and keep his optics from overflowing. Nothing could stop his capacitor from racing.

"A few mechs," Lugnut reported, all business. "They ran when I showed up."

"As one would expect from such a magnificent specimen!" Sunstorm's head poked in the door, eyes bright with curiosity. "And General Madam Strika, you are looking stupendously commanding, may I say?"

"You may not zay, Zunztorm."

Undaunted, Sunstorm slipped into the room. "Skywarp!" he said. "You are looking sleek and anxious today."

"Th-thank you?" Skywarp stuttered, then added meekly, "Your colors hurt my optics!"

"This does not look like fun at all," Ramjet muttered, peeking around the doorframe after Sunstorm. "And that injury is a joke."

"You know about it?" Lugnut turned. "Only thing I've seen that can do that is a shock rifle."

"That weapon has definitely NOT been modified," Ramjet said. "It's perfectly legal."

"Illegal tech," Strika said. "And in Iacon."

"But—why attack Blackout?" Lugnut asked.

Skywarp quivered. "It's Thundercracker, isn't it?"

Blackout wrung his hands, feeling useless.

"It could be," Lugnut said slowly, "the insignia. The fools in Iacon still do not see how much they owe of their current peace to the labors of the magnificent Megatron!"

"No," Barricade's voice was thin. "It's me. They were trying to get at me."

"Be yoozful, Zunztorm," Strika shooed him from the room. "See if zere's a medic in ze bar." Sunstorm bounced out, after a curtsy. She pointed Ramjet out the door as well, then crouched by the bed. "Barricade. How you know zis?"

"They knew me. Don't tell Blackout. My fault he got hurt. I ruin everything."

Strika blinked. "Barricade. Vhere are you?"

"Lugnut said Inamorato."

Strika gestured at Blackout—Barricade couldn't see. It took everything the copter had not to start wailing. He wrung his claws. Barricade was really hurt!

"Blackout," she began.

"Should bail if he knows what's good for him," Barricade muttered. "Ruining his life."

Lugnut shuffled his feet, to cover the wet sound Blackout made. "You're not ruining his life," Lugnut said. "He talks about you all the time. He'd die for you."

"Don't…fraggin' want him to." The front quarter panels popped as he tried to transform. He gasped. "But we can't even go one day, one slaggin' solar of having an awesome time, without something from my side just blowing it all up."

You had an awesome time? Blackout thought. For some reason, Barricade's admitting that made it feel worse.

"It is his dezision to make," Strika said.

"No. I'm done. I can't do this anymore. The nicest thing I can do is not drag him down with me."

Blackout couldn't stand it anymore. "I'm not going anywhere," he blurted. "You're my best friend and the best thing that's ever happened to me and if you think getting beaten up once is enough to change that, well…you're slaggin' wrong," he finished, lamely. I'd get beaten up every day for you, he added, silently.

Barricade went silent. The room went still, Lugnut looking almost as helpless as Blackout.

Skywarp edged around Blackout, whose rotors were shaking with emotion, his optics darting among the larger mechs until he came to the berth. He placed a hand on Barricade's hood. "It's okay to be scared," he whispered.

*****

Onslaught would have upgraded 'it's okay to be scared' to 'you're Primus-damned RIGHT to be scared,' Barricade thought, as he gingerly settled into the chair in General Strika's office. Onslaught's visor was unreadable, as always, but his body language was…less than snugglable. Barricade wished he hadn't told Blackout to wait for him outside. More like—go find a medic! The Autobot medic Sunstorm had dragged up to fix him had been competent enough, but when he'd finished fixing the ankle servos and instead hypervented into his feet, Barricade had kinda flipped out. He was not ready to meet the footperv. And not in a compromised situation. He'd been not-so-secretly glad that Blackout had been there and had cleared his vocalizer conspicuously.

"Quite an adventure you had," Onslaught began, dryly.

"Not my fault," Barricade muttered. His processor still ached and his optics had a hard time focusing.

"Have a good date?"

None of your business, Barricade thought. "Until that point," he said, guardedly. "Look, can we cut the dancing around for once? Not feeling up to banter."

"You must have been quite injured," Onslaught said. "Fine. You know what this is about."

Yeah. "The Thundercracker report."

"Yes, and…," Onslaught gave a faux-sympathetic tilt of his head, "there must have been some oversight or misunderstanding in the report—"

"I lied," Barricade said. "Told you: not feeling banter-rific right now. I lied."

"I know you lied," Onslaught said. "Question is, why. And…no banter." Barricade could practically hear Onslaught's smirk.

Fine. "Want the copter left out of it. Not his fault."

"I know that."

"You…know that?" Barricade nervously rubbed his talons down his thigh armor.

"Barricade: it's peacetime, now. Different rules. If this was combat and he barged in on an intel operation, I'd have his optics set in a pair of matching moodrings. It's not. Things are different in peacetime. This is one of them."

"So like, because It's peacetime, Onslaught's not a bastard anymore?"

Onslaught chuckled. Which was…unpleasant. "Onslaught's still a bastard. But he's the kind of bastard that knows that having a copter willing to throw himself into danger to rescue your sorry crankshaft—and apparently vice versa—is something he can work with."

"I hate you."

Another laugh. "I thought this was a no-banter conversation, Barricade."

Barricade glared.

Onslaught pushed himself up from the chair. "Right. Just to be clear, Barricade. The only reason I'm not stripping off your dermal plating and drinking your energon is you didn't lie to make _yourself_ look better. But if I ever catch you falsifying anything on a report, ever, and I mean even so much as a getting a color wrong, and you will have a long time in a prison colony to write me a nice long definition of regret."

Barricade swallowed. "Yes sir," he said, quietly. He rose, still wobbling on his repaired ankle and after a salute, turned to go.

"One other thing," Onslaught said. "One other reason I'm keeping you."

"Other than you like the feeling of me squirming under your thumb?" Barricade muttered.

Onslaught coded the door before him. "You wound me, Barricade. I'm keeping you out partly to enjoy the hilarious spectacle of you in love."

*****

Epilogue:

"How'd it go?" Blackout's olive crest was furrowed in concern. He'd waited until Onslaught had passed him, and was heading toward the bar. "What did he want to talk to you about?"

"Oh, about stuff," Barricade said, nervously. "Nothing big." He thought back over Onslaught's parting shot. His first response was a howling denial, followed by 'is it that obvious?' which welled out of…nowhere Barricade was familiar with. "Sorry about our date," he said.

Blackout pulled him in with one arm around his shoulder, bending down to kiss his audio. "True," he said. His voice suddenly got sly. "You didn't pass your quiz, Barricade. You only got a 85."

"Eighty-five?! I rescued you from a chopper!"

"Sorry, no," Blackout said. "You didn't finish the date." Wait, where was the copter getting this little bit of manipulation from? Oh yeah, right, probably from watching Barricade. Barricade, you are a terrible influence. A terrible, though hot, influence.

"Yeah?" Barricade caught the glint in Blackout's optics. "Any chance I could…get a makeup quiz?"

"I think so," Blackout said, grinning. His smile faded, looking down at Barricade's scorched armor and his own, scratched from being dragged across pavement. "I don't look so hot any more," he said, sadly.

Barricade rose up on his toes, pulling Blackout into a kiss. "Hot enough for me." He nipped the copter's mouth. "And…I ever tell you I used to work as a detailer?"


	23. Onanism

_A/N: Today is Toyz's birthday, so I decided to try my hand at a little fun pervy piece. This follows Toyz's "The Merciless Megatron." She likes it and said i could share her birthday present with everyone, so...enjoy some Shockwave!_

_**Onanism**_ by antepathy

Shockwave shifted on his berth. He adored Megatron, with every fiber in his cabling. His very spark pulsed at simply the sound of the magnificent mech's name. Not to mention what his spike did at the sight of Megatron—that fearsome, haughty face, that broad chassis tapering to that tight, narrow waist….

So, why, then, was his recharge interrupted by thoughts of Chromia? He thought their night together had gotten her out of his system. But no. Every night for the last deca, he'd been…tormented—that was really the only apt word—tormented by thoughts of the femme. He had resisted, of course. She was common property now, working in that brothel.

Moreover, she was Megatron's property. That, he analyzed, was what set him off. A redoubled jealousy—that Megatron had had her, had taken her, but not him. That she had preferred Megatron to him, barely managing to mumble a delirious word to Shockwave as he'd escorted her home. (Of course he had! He was aching with curiosity to know what had gone on between them, and…as he'd pieced it together the ache had built to a steady burning pain). And then she'd floated in the door without so much as a farewell kiss. That was the gratitude he got? Outrage.

He should put her behind him. He was a logical mech: she was obviously unworthy of his attention, much less his affection. Only…Megatron saw her as worthy.

Shockwave tossed on his berth. This was becoming…distracting. He could not even get physically comfortable. His spike jutted against its housing. He slowed his vents, trying to call up his meditative techniques to soothe the raging lust in his interface systems.

The command failed. His spike jounced against the cover, as if irritated by his attempt at control. Fractious. This was…unacceptable.

Megatron needed him in the morning. Needed. Him. Not Chromia. This was his chance to get back what the femme had taken from him, and he had to be at his best.

Which reduced him to this:

He released his spike cover, his spike pressurizing eagerly. He wrapped his hand around it, his golden optic doing a specialized sensor-sweep of the room. Just to make sure he was not being observed. One did not suffer years of intelligence work, especially not deep undercover in enemy territory, without being wary.

No. Safe. His hand squeezed his spike, recalling the eager clench of Chromia's valve. And that called to mind the sounds of her feral moans, the feel of her slim legs curled around his waist, the sight of her blue helm thrown back in ecstasy. Yes…. His hand stroked his spike, eagerly, exploring the large appendage's ridges and nodes. Imagining Chromia's mouth, even though, at this size, that would be…improbable. Nonetheless, despite the impossible physics of it, the image was indescribably arousing. He took one finger, and designated it as Chromia's glossa, letting it trace a quick flirtatious series of actions against his spike as the rest of his hand continued its steady pulling motion.

Chromia: sprawled facedown on the coverleted bed of the Classics room, the burgundy satin casting purple highlights over her blue plating, her wings flittering in suppressed response to the ecstasy he was causing her, his spike filling her valve, thrusting into it, his taloned fingers digging roughly into her hips, jerking her against him in almost-angry thrusts.

Chromia: writhing, howling obscenities at him as he teased her node with his fingers, his spike buried deep inside her. Her vulgarity aroused him to no end. Her wanton abandon was merely a testimony to his superiority.

Was that what aroused Megatron? Was Shockwave's problem that he was…too restrained? He pushed that thought from his mind, thinking instead about Chromia, her valve squeezing his spike….

And Megatron. Shockwave shivered, imagining himself suddenly sandwiched between the two of them, Chromia thrashing, moaning praise of his prowess, his spike driving hard into her, her knees squeezing hard around him, her hands desperately clutching at his shoulders, his antlers…and Megatron, behind him, grinding his spike into Shockwave's valve, hands reaching around his purple chassis, stroking his torso, down his thighs, letting Shockwave's own thrusts into Chromia do most of the work. He could feel the weight of Megatron against his back, imagine the feel of Megatron's long legs pushing his thighs apart, his sultry growl competing with Chromia's moans in his audio receptors.

Shockwave's hand pumped faster and faster along his spike, his audio receptors in reality filled with the wet slick sound of his lubricated hand's actions, his entire pelvic frame quivering. Yes. Both of them, crying out at the pleasure he brought them: Chromia incoherent from his massive spike; Megatron murmuring that no one—not even Chromia—had a valve as tight or responsive as Shockwave's. He could feel his valve cycle on, trying to grasp the illusory spike that existed—for the moment—only in Shockwave's imagination. Megatron's spike, and Chromia's valve. They should be his, both of them. His valve pulsed at the same tempo as his pulls on his spike, squeezing against a phantom spike, clutching at his fantasy. His spike prickled against his hand, the charge building. His other hand drifted to brush the sensitive node at the mouth of his valve, and the fantasy changed to…Chromia's glossa, her vulgar face buried between his thighs, mouth eager against him, hands clutching at him, moaning as Megatron thrust into her from behind.

Megatron, in this version, though, had optics only for Shockwave, looking over the blue femme's deliciously rounded shape, feasting on Shockwave's arousal. Shockwave allowed himself to show, writhing helplessly under Megatron's gaze and Chromia's ministrations. If Megatron was aroused by wanton, Shockwave would learn to do it.

His talon traced fast, frantic circles around the node, while his other pulled at his spike, lubricant glopping over his gripping hand, straining it against its mounting. Chromia, and Megatron, and both of them with him, touching him, looking at him, pleasuring him and he was the one it was all about, HE was between them and HE was the one that kept THEM up at night grinding in agonized unfulfilled lust and….!

His frame bucked against the berth, transfluid jetting out of his spike, spattering in soft, audible sounds against his belly and chassis, his valve clutching in a frantic spasm. He lay there, for long cycles, struggling to get his shuddering systems back into some semblance of order as the illusion around him faded, and he was alone, in his recharge berth, hands sticky with his own ambition.


	24. Parlour Trix

_A/N: Two-parter here with the next chapter being posted tomorrow. Optimus Bob and I teamed up for this one based on a twisted brain-storming session that gave birth to the idea of a voice-activated vibrator. XD Yeah, we need help. Anyway, it continues the story of Prowl, Lockdown and Oilslick, plus introduces Blackarachnia (and sort of Starscream) into the 'verse. For those that haven't read 'A Time For Trust', I built a big, epic romance between Blackarachnia and Starscream but it ended rather tragically, leaving BA to pine and wonder if he shares her feelings or, worse yet, if he's even alive.  
_

_There's pics of a few mixed and matched pairings on our DevArt page (TheInamorato) that kind of go along with this.  
_

_Enjoy! ^_^  
_

**Parlour Trix** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

"Where are we going?" giggled Blackarachnia, her spiny back pressed tighter to an orange cockpit.

"You'll see," smirked the jet as he let up on his thrusters and eased into a humming glide.

They flew high above the city, the automobile lights flickering below like fireflies, Michigan's summer air skating along their chassis. Blackarachnia inhaled deeply dimming her optics briefly as she interlocked her claws between the talons splayed firmly across her flesh-glazed body. She tilted her head just enough to catch a glimpse of the tapered chin and seemingly permanent smirk, and smiled dreamily when his gazed brushed past hers. He banked downward, pulling a gasp from her at their sudden planar shift, and aimed for a patch of green atop a skyscraper.

As they descended, she pursued the interrogation of their whereabouts but Starscream only answered with vague but playful two or three word responses, further igniting the anticipation in her spark. When they touched down upon the imported but real grassy turf with a million-dollar city view, her curiosity was finally satisfied.

"The butterfly house?" she gaped, slipping out of his hold and approaching the glass-domed architecture with reverie. "But…how did you…?"

"You said you were hungry," boasted the seeker as he swaggered past her and opened the large, green-tinted glass doors. "So I researched the most popular of cuisine choices among the arachnid varieties and found these whimsical creatures to be your second best option."

She drifted through the door, slowing as she passed him and narrowing a set of optics with wondering. "Second best?"

He led her into the humid menagerie with a gentle press to the small of her back, taking in the mimicked rainforest with a nod of approval.

"That is correct," he spoke softly, pulling her flush to his body. He trapped her with a kiss, his talons cupped behind her neck. She moaned in blissful surprise, dimming her optics to the orange glow of a staged Amazonian sunset and timidly raising her claws to his cheeks.

He broke the kiss but just enough to give his lips room to speak. "Seeing how a whimsical creature such as yourself would prefer to dine on Autobot energon lines, I went with the second best option in order to spare us a potentially violent evening."

"I'm not going to eat these," she nudged into a quick kiss "ornamental insects. They're much too pretty."

Starscream pulled her down into his lap as he took a seat on the rock wall lining a tall waterfall. Their chassis beaded up with the collection of mist upon them. He slipped her helmet off, setting it upon the rich soil then pressing his noes against her fleshy cheek.

"_You're_ much too pretty," he whispered, nipping the side of her mouth. "But that won't stop me from tasting every techno-organic inch of you."

He laid her into the flower bed then pressed down on her body, satisfying her begging lips with a deep kiss. She threw her arms around his neck, pushing hard into his mouth, her glossa meeting his with urgency. Her arousal flared wild through her flesh, pulsing rich energon through her hybrid curves. She pressed her pelvis into his with a smooth gyration and swung her leg over the back of his thigh, sliding her stiletto heel down to meet his elegant thrusters. Her hips moved in artful rhythm which he matched with gently thrusting.

She tilted her head back, allowing him access to her petite neck and growling a raspy cry when he bit into her. Her lust was too thick to feel the pain of her punctured energon lines but she felt his glossa lap every bead of liquid surfacing on her plating, from the pink drops on her neck to the waterfall's clinging presence on her cheeks.

Their interface panels retracted in unison and Starscream slid into her flesh-lined valve with a single, smooth thrust. She arched into him and squeezed her thighs tighter around his hips, pushing him further inside. She moaned with each of his graceful thrusts, relishing every inch of his elegant armor that seemed to meld itself into her. She was surprised how light he felt considering how much of his body was laid over hers. She wrote it off as a jet thing, not wanting to spoil the moment by thinking to deeply on the matter.

She kissed him again, her gloss meeting his as it brushed across her fangs. She moaned wantonly, wrapping her arms tighter around his broad, armored shoulders, her claws scratching his perfect paint job. His moans bled into a strange, deep laughter; almost a cliché villainous chuckle. She was surprised his voice could drop to such a low pitch. Primus knows she wasn't complaining, but if this gorgeous, brilliant jet had somehow managed to evolve a sexy voice as well, she's not sure she could handle the whole package of Starscream without bursting into tiny little bits of techno-organic goo droplets.

"My my my, what have we here?" purred the new voice.

She broke the kiss to verify it was indeed Starscream speaking and sure enough, there was the smirk and sexy feline brow. Dear Primus he was beautiful. She opened her mouth to express this thought but was startled by a sudden splash of water across her face.

"Ack! Did you feel that?" she complained. "I think we're too close to the waterfall."

"Come on my dear, I don't have all cycle," spoke the voice again.

The water in her optics suddenly became less of a concern. What the spark did he mean by that? She furrowed her brow in insult. Joint-weakening voice or not, that was just rude. Granted this is Starscream she's 'facin here, but why the sudden shift of manners?

Again, she attempted a response but was silenced by another splash of water to her face, this one colder and much more jolting.

"What the—" She wiped the fluids from her face, her aggravation rising quickly. Once she could see again, she refreshed her optics a few times, confusion engulfing her immediately as the red and blue haze of her seeker faded into toxic shades of green streaked over a black figure.

"You know, it is not a good business practice to recharge during hours of operation," came the voice again.

Blackarachnia sprung to her feet, staggering slightly at the ensuing head rush. The blurry image of Parlour Trix's tastefully artistic interior filled in around her, fully yanking her from yet another romantic interlude into her imagination.

Parlour Trix was the name of her little boutique nestled in the middle of downtown Kaon. It opened its doors soon after Inamorato did, catering to the same clientele as the brothel. Blackarachnia crafted a wide variety of interfacing toys and accessories, using her keen knowledge of mech anatomy and electrical engineering. Her customers were not only patrons of the brothel but the madams themselves. Arcee and General Strika preferred to stock their private rooms with the finest quality of sensual enhancers and Blackarachnia had the best gear on Cybertron, far superior to the chintzy gizmos that came out of the back alley shops in Iacon. She never imagined her science training at the Autobot Academy would lead to this, but she wasn't complaining. Her business was quite successful and very rewarding, but most importantly, it kept her out of the arena business and away from Megatron's suffocating presence.

It couldn't, however, always keep her out of the presence of shady characters.

"Oil Slick!" barked the embarrassed predacon. "You could've knocked."

The slender Decepticon chopper stood with a condescendingly straight posture, briefcase in one hand and small, half-filled energon cube in the other. She quickly deduced that he had been flicking energon in her face and this infuriated her more.

"Door was open" he reasoned, casually.

She huffed over to the checkout counter, snatching a tissue from the shelf below and wiping the remaining energon droplets from her face.

"You're a real jerk sometimes, you know that!?"

He held fast to his smile and swayed up to the counter, setting his briefcase upon it.

"You won't say that once you sample my latest wax."

"Sample?" she questioned, replacing some of her frustration with intrigue. "Did you…actually flavor it?"

"I did," he responded with pride.

She should've stayed mad at him, but she couldn't help being impressed by his proclaimed achievement. The sleazy 'con was a brilliant biochemist and the variations of chassis wax he supplied her with were one of her hottest items. It was only a week ago they had dreamt up the idea of flavored chassis wax, and here he was, already toting an entire case full. Judging by the different colored labels, it looked as though he crafted a variety of flavors too. Damned clever snake. If it were any other mech, he'd be flat on his back, paralyzed with venom and she'd be sporting a lovely new, but temporary power.

"What is the latest, greatest invention Parlour Trix is unveiling this week?" inquired the chemist with a tauntingly fake charm.

She pulled a container of wax from his case then nodded her head toward the shelf behind her.

"See for yourself" she said, distracted by the waft of pleasant aroma that escaped once she removed the lid of the container.

Oil Slick stepped behind the counter and studied the new toy curiously while Blackarachnia smeared a dollop of spritzer-flavored wax over her blue-tipped claws. She tasted the wax then immediately made a noise of pleasant surprise.

"Wow, what other flavors are there?"

The chemist lifted the egg-shaped item from the shelf and turned it over, inspecting the small buttons and switches on it.

"Jet fuel and seeker spike" he teased, his focus locked on the device.

"That's not funny!" she defended, shoving him hard in his spiked bracer.

"Tell me, my dear," he leaned sideways into the counter and then held the device up between them. "How does this work?"

"Huh," she began, sassily crossing her arms, "I never took a _sophisticated_ mech such as yourself for the illiterate type."

His smirked disappeared as she turned the device over in his grasp, displaying its sticker label. She pointed a taunting claw to each word as she read them out loud, slowly.

"Voice…Activated…Vibrat—"

"I get that part," he growled, his rounded nose crinkling at the bridge. "I mean whose voice?"

"Whoever you want," she said, pleased with herself. She lifted another flavor of wax from the case. "You just need to record a sample of their voice into it."

"Interesting," he cooed, regaining his sleazy smirk. The spider reached for the device and pressed a button on it then leaned over and spoke into it.

"Oil Slick is a dirty ol' pervert," she announced in a playful voice.

"Very funny," he glowered as he inspected the item closer. "Now what?"

"This little switch…" She flipped it on for him.

"Okay…now wha—"

"Pervert!" she shouted, immediately beckoning the toy to vibrate to life and nearly startling the coolant out of its holder.

"So it responds to particular words?" pondered the chemist, his shock quickly replaced with intrigue. "Not just a voice?"

"Uh huh," she bragged. "You can record up to five words and each one, when spoken only with the recorded voice will… DIRTY OLD PEVERT!"

The device buzzed wildly again, causing the chemist to drop is clumsily onto the counter. Blackarachnia cackled mockingly, stopping the device from rolling off of the counter then lifting it back into his view. "So…you want one? Wanna be the first kid on your block with the newest model 'facin toy?"

"I do want it," replied the chopper, his devious grin finding its way back to the oblong face. "But not for myself."

"Is there someone special?" she inquired, leaning into the counter with a raised brow.

"You could say that." He took the toy from her claws, his processer obviously spinning with ideas. "Must the voice be recorded live or could I use a comm call?"

"I wouldn't trust a comm call. Live voice will give you the strongest reaction."

"It appears I have a stop to make at Inamorato once I leave here," sang Oil Slick with a scheming tune.

She straightened her posture and planted a hand to her hip, displaying clearly her disapproval at whatever was dancing through his processor.

"The spark you plotting?"

"You and Lockdown meet socially once a week, do you not?" pondered the shady mech.

"Yeah…" her optics narrowed as she eyed him skeptically. "Why?"

"How social do you get?"

"That's none of your business."

"In other words…" Oil Slick toyed his talons around his new toy, beholding it with delight. "You're 'facing friends."

The guilty femme opened her mouth to protest but couldn't find the words before he continued.

"What would it take for you to—"

"No!" she interjected.

"It was not a yes or no question. I simply want to know—"

"An act of Primus," she stated, slamming the lid back on a wax container. Oil Slick nodded acceptingly, his confident smile not budging.

"I can offer something close to that" He removed the remaining wax containers from his brief case, a cocky attitude guiding his every move.

She started stacking the wax containers, avoiding his optic contact and attempting to feign disinterest. Finally, her curiosity regretfully got the best of her.

"Like what?" she inquired snootily.

"Information…"He snapped his case shut then slid it off the counter. "About a questionably immortal seeker."

"Wha—What have you heard?" she gasped, balling her altered hand in a fist then slowly raising it to her chest. "Are the rumors true? Is he still alive?"

"Ah ah," he waved a single talon teasingly. "First you must agree to my terms. We are businessbots after all."

"How do I know you're not feeding me a line of scrap?" She balled her fist tighter.

"Because, my dear," he took her hand in his and raised her claws up to his lips. "I consider you a friend," he lightly pecked the fleshy purple claws, "as well as a business partner.

She yanked her hand back, unimpressed. "Spare me. You've been hanging around Swindle too long."

"Indeed I have, but that is who I acquire my information from…such information as Starscream being alive and confirmed at large within Kaon itself."

"How can you confirm that?" she asked darkly, inching toward him.

"I'll tell you…after you complete a simple task."

She stood silently a moment, all four of her optics locked analytically on the mech while her processor glommed onto every possible justification for agreeing to his offer.

"It's just a harmless trick, right?" she stepped closer to him. "A practical joke against Lockdown?"

"Tomfoolery between old time friends" assured the shady chopper.

"Whose voice will you use?"

Oil Slick rolled his optics then turned toward the door. "Take a wild guess. Now if you'll excuse me, I have a brothel to visit."

She pursued him, poking him tauntingly in the back. "Prowl's a good bot, and he's been through a lot. You better not lay a claw on him!"

The noxiously-colored chemist paused at the door, looking slyly over his handlebar shoulder. "I would never dream of such a thing."

She could smell the lie hanging in the air; sense the dark history between him and that poor, unlucky ninja. She didn't know the details but she knew something was amiss between those two.

"Trust me, my lovely," he continued with attempted innocence, "all I intend to do is pay our dear ninja a quick visit, record a select few words then set our mutual, bounty hunter friend up for a deliciously awkward surprise. I'm actually doing him a favor in some respect."

"Respect is not the word that comes to cortex here," argued the femme. "Can you promise me you won't hurt Prowl?"

"I promise," he sang with surprising believability.

She pointed to the toy in his grasped, her expression pinched in seriousness. "Bring this back to me before solarset and I'll make sure it gets properly…installed."

"Excellent," he opened the door but she slammed it shut again, boring into him with a wild glare.

"And tomorrow morning, I expect a comm call from you, spilling every detail you know about Starscream…rumors too. I want everything."

"I shall not disappoint you, my dear."

***

Only a hint of blue remained of Cybertron's solarset. Blackarachnia locked up shop and headed down the street a few blocks to the local sports pub. She and Lockdown made a habit of meeting weekly to watch a fight or two, sometimes at the pub, sometimes at the arena itself. It all depended on who was in the match and what mood the spider was in. Regardless of the venue, they would always put back a few cubes and chit chat over anything from the weather to juicy Autobot gossip, but on occasion, Blackarachnia would decide to make an all-nighter of it, choosing to meet at the venue closest to her shop.

She and Lockdown had a unique understanding, what with each of them being stupidly sprung over a single, seemingly unattainable bot, yet still having primal urges to satisfy. She envied Lockdown for the slow but steady progress he was making with his inamorato, despite the fact that each of his visits to Prowl's place of work left him frustrated to the brink of madness. At least he made contact with the bot. Blackarachnia wasn't so lucky. She had now been reduced to involving herself in petty pranks just to hear second-hand information about a bot whose very existence was debatable.

The idea that Starscream could possibly be alive and in this very city filled her with a strange mix of excitement and disappointment: excitement for obvious reasons and disappointment in the fact that if he was at large, why he hadn't contacted her yet? He should know he can trust her. She wouldn't blow his cover to the Elite Guard or Megatron. She would do anything for him, risk everything; especially if it meant earning him the recognition he deserved and putting him in the limelight of Cybertron as a hero rather than a threat.

Primus, what wouldn't she do for that fantastical jet.

"You decided or what, bug eyes? Waitress here ain't got all night."

Blackarachnia snapped back into the scene, sliding an apologetic glance to the indifferent waitress. "Just…bring another of what he's having," she muttered distantly.

The waitress nodded then attempted to walk off but Lockdown caught her by the arm.

"Nah, sweetheart, hold up. Leggy here don't drink low-grade. Not sure where her processor is tonight, but bring her one a'them pink, bubbly things, and put it on my tab.

"Your tab is maxed, Lockdown," droned the waitresses.

"For spark's sake," interjected the predacon. "Put it all on mine."

The waitress seemed to accept this option because she turned away then barked their drink orders to the mech behind the bar. Blackarachnia had to wonder if that femme knew what a facial expression even was.

"Don't need you payin' fer my drinks," huffed the bounty hunter.

The spider only responded with a single raised brow.

"Just…" he looked away, rolling his shoulder back and popping some stiff joints in his neck. "Just in a slump is all."

Blackarachnia leaned into the table, casting her companion a quizzical gaze. "I thought you and Swindle got a healthy reward for turning over the Quint ship."

"We did. Squids let us have the whole slaggin' ship but Swindle --the worst business partner in the known universe-- keeps dickin' around with it, takin' it from one trading outpost to the next.

"What do you guys plan to do with it?"

"Plan was," Lockdown looked over at the bar, straining to learn the status of his drink, "to strip it of its mods and weapons and sell 'em individually to the highest bidders. We intended to split the profits, well…split it after that greasy valveleak dealer took his commission."

The spider could only shake her head in pity, cringing at the idea of one's financial stability in the hands of Swindle.

"I ain't seen a credit of my share yet," continued the hunter with a rising bitterness. "Am about to hunt his aft down and hand _him_ over to the highest bidder."

"Once you get your share, what are you going to do?"

"Rebuild the Death's Head." He responded immediately with a rare passion to his voice. "Poor gal still sittin' in the scrap yard."

The waitress dropped off their drinks, but she never once removed her gaze from the screens overhead. Lockdown and Blackarachnia glanced up to the apparently captivating display just in time to see Waspinator hurl Brawn across the entire length of fighting ring. The bar erupted in cheers and Lockdown leaned back in his chair, nodding in admiration.

"You preds got some serious fight in ya." He put back a hefty gulp of low grade, no attempt made whatsoever at table manners.

She looked him over in slight repulsion, taking a dainty sip of her cocktail, the fizzy bubbles tickling her fleshy nose as the popped.

"Yeah, all two of us…no wait, three. I always forget about Rattrap."

"Three? Nawww Blackie, there's more a' ya than that." He tilted the remaining low-grade into his maw, clearing his throat gutturally as the burn traveled down his insides. "You heard of that band of nomads right? Group a gypsy-types…roaming around the deserts, doing their voodoo-hoodoo rituals on whoever crosses their path.

"That's an urban legend you dolt. Everyone's heard about them but only a select few _special_ bots believe that nonsense." She rolled her optics has she took another sip then chuckled under her breath. "Techno-organic gypsies."

"Don't be such a skeptic. The story's legit. It's just the organiphobes like Glitchead Magnus that write it off as fable for fear that the big bad preds will sneak into his berthroom at night and touch him with their naughty paws, or pinchers or whatever it is they got."

She refreshed her optics in disbelief at the strange mech she calls company, baffled at some of the things he lets slip out of that mouth. "How much have you had to drink tonight?"

Lockdown looked with impatience over the bar, grunting in annoyance once he spotted their waitress lounging on a stool. "Not enough!" He turned back toward the spider, pointing a stern finger at her drink. "Finish that quick so we can get the spark outta here…service sucks tonight."

"We just got here," she argued, gesturing to the monitors above. "Fights aren't even at halftime."

"You and I both know you didn't choose to meet in this dump so we could hang around here all night." Lockdown rose from his seat, adjusting his poncho so it draped properly, "Now finish yer damn drink."

She pushed her pink concoction to his side of the table. "You finish it. I prefer not to guzzle my drinks like some Cro-Magnon."

Lockdown eyeballed her, then her cocktail, then cautiously casts his glance from side to side before quickly tilting the entire drink down his throat, garnish and all.

She watched him with amusement. "You're not supposed to drink the flowers, you jackaft." She couldn't help but giggle when he tugged her from her chair and led her out of the bar.

They made their way down the street, their focal point the pink glow of Parlor Trix's sign in the distance.

"What's your urgency?" teased the femme, her heels clicking an uneven rhythm as she tried to match his wavering, but quick pace. "Your panel about to pop off?"

"Pretty much," he replied without remorse.

"That's awfully presumptuous of you," her teasing continued.

"Don't play coy with me, Silky. I know you mean business tonight."

She should have replied with a sassy comeback but she conceded to bite back a grin as the flesh in her face began heating up. She hated this low class, boorish mech for the arousal he could spark in her, the worst part being that he didn't even have to try. She typically fell for the educated and heroic types, specifically in shades of red and blue, so her attraction to Lockdown was a genuine mystery to science. One of these times she would conduct some experiments to help explain the quandary, but for the time being, she had some business to attend to.

They reached her front door and it took multiple attempts to key in the code unlock it. Lockdown was already hunched over her, his brutish mug nudging into her petite neck.

"Can't you wait until we're inside?" she laughed, her arousal wiping out any possible irritation at his impatience.

Finally, she got the door open and was instantly herded through it. The hunter flung his poncho off, slamming the door behind them with a kick. He pulled her into him, his broad hand splayed over her hip as he pressed her body into his pelvic plating. He devoured her parted smirk with a kiss, overwhelming her taste nodes with the mix of low-grade and spritzer. She slid her claws over his shoulders and growled into his mouth, her thoughts still fixed on the methods behind their madness.

This mech was a scoundrel, a slob even; completely lacking any sophistication. She should be offended by the way his glossa twined around hers, revolted by the hook creeping down her thigh and repulsed by transfluid that leaked from his interface panel and was smearing onto her stomach. If disgust caused her valve to line thickly with lubricant then she was beyond disgusted by the feel of his finger slipping inside it and fondling her eager nodes.

She bit into his upper lip, growling through her fangs as he pressed his fingers and pelvis into her.

"Primus, Trixie…you sure got the bug tonight," he whispered into her cheek. "You have another dream 'bout ol' Screamer?"

Her lack of response and clenching of her valve answered the question for him.

"The spark you see in that whiny jet, anyway?" he inched his head back to look her in the face and clearly display his disapproval for her taste in mechs. "All he does is breed chaos, literally. Thought you were into the noble types."

"Shows how little you know," her voice was low and sultry. She hiked her legs around his hips, locking them behind his back. He growled wantonly, his hook and wetted fingers easing over the smooth, purple curves hidden beneath her arachnid abdomen. He carried her to the checkout counter, swiping his hooked arm over it and sending dozens of wax containers tumbling to the floor.

"Dammit, Lockdown," she complained as he lifted her onto the counter. "That's my new merchandise!"

He peered around her to the mess on the floor, shrugging carelessly. "Nothin' broke." He quickly averted his attention back to her closed thighs and pressed his body into them, his interface panel retracting and revealing a fully aroused and fluid-tipped spike. "You never answered my question by the way."

"You first," she said, eyeing his mechhood with want then leaning back onto her elbows.

"I'm primed and ready darlin'. Just waiting for your reciprocation."

"I meant, you single-transistored processor, tell me first what makes you so gaga over Prowl and then I'll tell you about _ol' Screamer_."

"Give my buddy here someplace to dock, then I'll tell ya."

"How romantic." She rolled her optics then spread her legs apart, one a time, her thighs instantly squirming at the heat his spike radiated onto her freshly exposed valve. She cried out something animalistic as he pressed into her, throwing her head back and clawing at the edges of the counter.

"I warn ya," he said, starting to build momentum to his thrusts, "talkin' bout the kid could make me 'load prematurely."

"Tell me anyway," she breathed, arching her back in time with his thrusts. "I gotta know…I always took you for a…femme-only kinda mech."

"I am!" he argued. "Err…was…but Prowl's just…a different kinda creature." He slows his thrusts but keeps a steady rhythm, drifting his hook down her thigh and across her stomach, studying her curves introspectively.

"That little punk," he continued softly "makes me feel things I didn't know I could feel…makes me wanna talk in fraggin' poetry like some twinkle-toed bohemian, 'specially when I see him in that damned apron."

"More to him than his looks you know," added the femme, dimming her optics at the unexpected eroticism of Lockdown's confessional behavior.

"Ya think I don't know that?" He picked up the pace of his thrusting again, causing her body to buck and her legs to wrap tighter around his hips. "Ninjabot needs only to open that little pout and lecture me with some snooty nonsense and pff…forget about it. There go all my coherent thoughts. Don't care what insults or protests he tosses me, so long as that voice is bein' used on my behalf."

The spider tilted her head and beheld her mismatched lay in a new, almost reverent light.

"Moment I laid optics on him," Lockdown continued with a crooked smile, "I was hooked...clever fox got the drop on me. No one ever gets the drop on me, 'specially not some do-goodin' Autobot."

"Come on now," she quirked a fangy smile, "do-gooders aren't all that bad. You've almost become one of them yourself."

The hunter hoisted himself onto the counter, his movements smooth and controlled enough to keep his spike firmly seated in her. "Don't go spreadin' that rumor around."

She sighed as his body eased down on top of her, his warmth sending tingles through each of her circuits. With a gentle shift, he penetrated deeper inside her, seeking out a few neglected nodes.

"Ooohhh!" she cried out, her voice hitching unevenly. "Oh Lockdown!"

"Hurtin' ya?" he inquired with concern.

"Oh no," she threw her arms around his neck, "quite the opposite."

"Good" he said, shifting his weight to one side so he could see the rare, naked lust in her face. He moved his hips just enough to keep pressing at those key nodes, pleased with himself for the apparent state of putty he was putting her in. "Now it's your turn, Fangs. What's that seeker got that you can't just go buy from one a' his lunatic clones down at the brothel?"

She dragged her claws over his shoulders, across his back and tapered waist then down his coattails, enjoying every unique aspect of his chassis. "Those clones," she whispered euphorically, "are only a piece of his personality."

"I realize that. The part I don't get is how a compilation of crazy can equal anything but an absolute fuckin' disaster."

She giggled lightly, her hand gliding over his hip and meeting his hand which squeezed her thigh firmly. "He is a disaster…but a brilliant one. He has an amazing processor, genius in fact…all wrapped up in sexy jet model." Her thoughts drifted off into some fantasy world, much to Lockdown's dismay.

"Right," he grumbled sarcastically. "Smarts and sex appeal…there are so few of us." He rolled his optics and his entire body, pulling his spike from her and settling on his back next to her. "Spark it. All this talk of flyboys is killing my mood."

The spider's four optics illuminated hotly as she snapped back into the scene. She turned over sat up on her knees, eyeballing the piecemeal mech a dangerous glare. "The spark you think you're doing? We're not done here."

She flung a leg over him, straddling his hips then lowering her hungry valve over his slicked spike. She began grinding adamantly, her movements strong and rhythmic. Lockdown growled lustfully, his smile spreading across his face as he tilted his head back.

Her vocalizations started up as her movements became more drastic. She grabbed his hook and pinned it over his head, leaning over him and baring her fangs viciously. His single hand planted itself firmly on her aft. They growled in unison, their arousal escalating uncontrollably. A couple more violent thrusts sent her into overload. Her carnivorous cries of ecstasy combined with her clenching, fluid-drenched valve sent him over the edge as well and he erupted inside her with an equally wild roar of release.

She arched her body abruptly, casting her gaze to the ceiling as her growls slid into sighs. His hand reached up for her chest then slid down her stomach and eventually found its way to the arachnid curves of her back. His fingers teased each spine, causing her to dim her optics in relaxation then collapse into a sprawl at his side. She draped an arm and leg across him and shifted until her head found a comfortable spot on his shoulder.

"Ahhh, Bugeyes," he said with a gravelly sigh "you certainly know how to treat a mech. Jerkoff jet don't deserve half the energy you put into him." He traced the length of her arm with his hook, stopping at the blue-tipped fingers then raising them up for inspection. "What's the story here? Fashion statement?"

"Just the story of a jerkoff jet," she sighed, nestling her head into his thick, striped neck, "and the femme who gave him her spark."

"Primus, Trixie," he wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her tighter into him. "You're more of a hopeless case than I am."

Blackarachnia only replied with a blissful hum. She really enjoyed this understanding. If only she'd warmed up to Lockdown eons ago when they first crossed paths, she might have spared herself a seeming lifetime of lonely stellar cycles. She was very fortunate to have this. Outside of Starscream's arms, there weren't any others she would allow herself to find sanctuary in like this. This peculiar mech was definitely something special.

The spider listened closely as her companion's ventilating grew shallow, knowing he was moments away from slipping into recharge. She wasn't proud of the task she committed herself to, but the promise of learning the possible whereabouts of Starscream wasn't something she could pass up. She could only hope her devious actions wouldn't cost her a unique friend. It's only a joke, she justified. A little prank involving a harmless 'facing toy. What harm could it really do?

Just as she predicted, Lockdown was out cold in a matter of cycles. Two drinks and an overload might as well have been a sledgehammer to his neural net. She slowly peeled herself from his side and slipped down to the end of the counter where his legs dangled off. She pulled the vibrator from her hip pouch and gently pressed his thighs apart, noting with mild offense that he never bothered to cover his spike back up. Under normal circumstances, she would not stand for cuddling with such crude exhibitionism, but fortunately, his bad manners worked in her favor this time.

She gripped the small device between her needle-like claws then slid it inside him, pushing it in deep so as not to risk it slipping out during transformation. Her face hung awkwardly over his pelvis, the proximity of his spike almost taunting. That spike was something to be reckoned with and she knew that he knew it. It was obviously an upgrade, something he must have put a lot of effort into what with the custom paint job and fancy texturing. She was surprised he didn't put spikes on it as well.

Her fingers retreated from his valve, wetted by his lubricant. Lockdown groaned lightly and shifted, a wide and dopey grin traveling across his face.

"Ya know I prefer to be awake fer these things, toots," purred the mech.

Blackarachnia froze, her processor searching frantically for an explanation. Lockdown wasn't interested in an explanation though because he gripped her under the arms then tugged her onto him, his arousal quickly pulling him from a groggy state.

"How 'bout I take top this time?" He rolled her onto her back, pinning her arms above her head and burying his face into her neck. He teased the flesh-coated wiring with his glossa, wiping any and all thoughts of resistance from her processor. Damned ol' fragger knew exactly how to get her going, putting just enough pressure in all the right areas.

This was, without a doubt, the most enjoyable trick she ever played.


	25. Sweet Nothings

_A/N: __WARNINGS: Hints at some kind of dark goings on in Prowl's past. Read Business as Usual if you're lost, I am working a whole history between Prowl and Oilslick within this whole story. :D_

_We have sticky, handjob (kinda), ANGST by the bucket full ^___^ any PxLD lovers out there... enjoy!!_

_Little tip for anyone trying to post: cut and paste over an existing document it's not allowing uploads. Because we're all not used to ff fraggin' up right ^^_

**Sweet Nothings by Optimus Bob**

The door to The Inamorato swung open, letting in a gust of cool air. With a small scowl of annoyance Prowl caught hold of the napkins before the sudden breeze scattered them all over the bar.

It was too early for patrons to start arriving and the arena match had only just started. The bar was sparsely filled. Chromia was smiling dreamily as she practiced her pole dance routine, her processor clearly elsewhere. The Starscream clones were draped over the balcony, bickering as usual, while Arcee was sat at a booth preparing the paper work for Madam Strika as it was her evening off and she was leaving Strika in charge.

All optics were drawn to the interruption at the door. Prowl's optics widened behind his visor at the sight of freshly waxed green and black armour, complete with polished spikes that glinted in the soft mood lighting of the club. He forced himself to look away, instead concentrating intently on straightening the napkins in front of him.

He fought against a frown threatening to form across his brow as his spark did a cartwheel in his spark chamber. Mentally preparing himself for that familiar droll voice, he frowned a few seconds later when Lockdown completely bypassed the bar and made a beeline for Arcee. He swaggered with a more awkward gait than usual; his strides longer, more determined, his posture seemed forced, uncomfortable like he wasn't entirely happy about something.

"Hey sweetie! You made it."

"Told ya I wouldn't disappoint. Where we doin' this then?"

"My office, Madam Strika is already in there waiting for you. Go on ahead I'll be a couple of kliks."

Lockdown gave her a nod and sauntered over to the office, his strides definitely more pronounced than usual, Prowl noted to himself absently.

"Hey don't start without me!" Arcee called out across the room, prompting a sly grin from that white maw.

"'Fraid you'll miss somethin' darlin?"

"With you Lockdown." Arcee winked with good humour. "Always."

Prowl's frown deepened at the casual back and forth. Last time Lockdown was in the club he was thrown out for fighting with Oilslick. Prowl tensed at the thought of the Oilslick and quickly shook the thought of him from his processor. He openly scowled at the office door as Arcee joined the other two in her office and closed it behind her with a resounding click.

"Ooohh I wonder what they're doing in there." Chromia filled Prowl's vision as she hitched herself onto the bar and leaned back to throw him a devious grin. "Do you think he paid a lot for their services?"

Her grin spread as Prowl huffed audibly and set about arranging the glassware behind him, turning his back on her. "It's not any of my business what my employers do with their time." He stated haughtily.

"Yeah but aren't you just a little bit curious?"

Prowl shot the femme a disdainful glance as she draped herself across the bar. "No. And nor should you be."

"But it's Lockdown!"

"So?"

"Well isn't he like you know?" She smirked at him in amusement. "Like your beau or something?"

Prowl scoffed. "Of course not. We have no relationship of any kind."

"I think someone protests too much." She retorted in a singsong voice. "But then you always do when I bring him up don't you? I bet you're dying to know why he's here."

Prowl polished a glass with more force than was necessary as her optics danced with glee at his discomfort. "I neither know nor do I care why he's visiting."

"Suuuurrre you don't" Chromia smirked, her legs swinging back and forth idly.

Prowl growled softly. "Don't you have something else to be doing?" He muttered, setting the well and truly polished glass down firmly before picking up another and glaring at it accusingly, almost as if he could clean it with just the power of his optics.

Chromia's optics brightened and she drew back, covering her mouth dramatically. Letting out a showy gasp, she grinned widely at the tense ninja and pointed at his back. "Ooohhh!! You're jealous!"

Prowl spun round, his face a picture of indignation. "I am not!"

Chromia pursed her lips and folded her arms across her chest, quirking an orbital ridge at him. "You don't know why he's here, he hasn't so much as sniffed in your direction and its killing you isn't it?" She giggled, thoroughly enjoying herself.

Prowl's optics narrowed, his tone of voice betraying his dwindling patience. "I am nothing of the sort and I'll thank you to keep your fabrications to yourself."

"Awww, don't be like that darlin'" She replied, putting distinct emphasis on the 'darlin'. "I'm sure he'll squeeze you in for seconds." She patronizingly patted his hand a snicker escaping her vocaliser.

"Augh! You, you're just…AUGH!!" Prowl slapped the rag he was using onto the bar and stalked out.

Chromia bit her lower lip and feigned a wince as the door to the organic room slammed shut.

"Oopps." She chuckled, sliding off the bar. "Guess I touched a nerve."

The jets chortled from the balcony. "That was simply superb!" Sunstorm gushed.

"Yeah Prowl's going to be all warm and fuzzy for the rest of the night, no thanks to you." Ramjet rolled his optics.

Prowl normally provided them all with personally made energon concoctions to maintain their energy levels throughout the night, especially on match nights when business was well… busy. A pissy ninjabot however, meant no free drinks or any drinks from the bar of any kind for the staff until the end of shift.

Chromia shrugged and smirked. "What can I say; he's just too much fun to play with."

****

Prowl remained in the organic room meditating until the very start of his shift. He was used to Chromia's personal brand of annoyance but this time her words had struck a nerve. He wasn't jealous. Prowl's jaw clenched as he fought back the ludicrous notion. What reason did he have to be jealous? It wasn't like Lockdown and he were... well... anything.

He opened his optics at that thought and frowned. That didn't bother him either, did it? The ninjabot bristled with irritation and tightened his hands into fists. No! Frag it! He wasn't jealous and he most certainly wasn't in a relationship with that miscreant. Prowl growled softly to himself. Nor did he desire a relationship with him either.

Lockdown was uncouth, rude, overbearing, not to mention his questionable business practices. He was all that and more. A bounty hunter who had hunted his friends, stolen innocent mechs' mods. The very mech who had killed Yoketron. Prowl straightened and stood with determined resolve. No there was nothing, absolutely nothing that would ever endear him to Lockdown. He brushed himself off and fiddled with his satin apron before stepping out of the room quietly.

Absolutely nothing.

Prowl headed toward the bar, pleased with his own self-persuasion.

He was a good kisser though.

Prowl froze in his tracks, grimacing as his processor threw out the stray tendril of thought. His optics flickered and his intakes faltered at the memory of that lingering kiss they'd shared, the last time he'd crossed paths with the inscrutable bounty hunter. Taking a deep intake of air, Prowl forced the thought to the back of his processor, that was an entirely separate issue. He continued to tell himself just that as he took his place behind the bar, just as the first customers began drifting through the doors.

He managed to keep that - most distracting of thoughts - out of his head for the remainder of the evening, going about his business serving drinks as he always did. That was until the office door opened and Lockdown stepped out, looking altogether far too smug.

Prowl's spark chose that moment to explode in his chest as all the distracting thoughts of that large green and black mech flooded his cortex.

****

Lockdown cast his deep red optics over the room. It had gotten a little busier since he'd holed up in the office. His gaze fell on the bar where that familiar black and gold chassis was located, going about his business, his back turned to him. Lockdown smirked and sauntered over, he winced a little, feeling that subtle pull in his valve once more. He thought nothing more of it, instead planting his aft firmly on the free stool at the bar and waited.

Prowl could feel his distinctive presence behind him and made sure his trademark bland scowl was fixed onto his faceplates. It had just been a kiss, nothing more; Lockdown only ever toyed with him, that night had been no different. Why would it be any different? Just a kiss.

He shot the large mech a glance over a shoulder and continued to refill the different grades of energon. "What can I do for you?" He kept it professional, impersonal.

Lockdown's smirk widened at the formal, polite tone. Sometimes Prowl just made it too easy. "Well kid, that I'm yet to find out." He eyeballed the slender ninjabot suggestively, ignoring Prowl's indignant scoff. "Fer now I'll settle for my usual."

Within seconds, an energon cube was planted in front of him. "That'll be three credits." Prowl glared at him with more disdain than was really necessary.

"Put it on my tab." Lockdown's smirk seemed permanently etched into his striking white faceplates.

"You don't have a tab. Nor are you allowed to have one due to your debts to the club."

"Funny I was under the impression that staff got to open a tab and have it taken off their next pay check."

Prowl sighed, not really registering what Lockdown was saying. "Look I'm sorry but you'll either have to pay or... wait... staff?"

Lockdown quirked an orbital ridge at him, his smirk spreading. "Got myself a job. Bouncer."

Prowl's mouth fell open in shock. "A job?" His voice struggled to remain above a startled whisper. "Here?"

Lockdown gulped his energon. "You heard me kid." He leaned forward and winked slyly. "You and me, going to be workin' together a lot more often."

Prowl regained his composure and let out an undignified grunt of disapproval, turning away from Lockdown's smug grin. "They must be desperate." He winced as the harsh words left his vocaliser.

"The spark's yer problem?" Lockdown frowned at Prowl's back, not liking the particular brand of snark he was suffering from the uptight ninja.

Prowl shuttered his optics, ok so he may have been a tad out of line. He let out a soft sigh. "Lockdown..." He dropped his helm. "I apologize... what I said was uncalled for." He turned to find Lockdown gripping onto the bar, a soft grunt escaping through his gritted denta.

Frowning, confused, Prowl took a step forward. "Lockdown? Are you alright?" He canted his head to the side curiously as Lockdown whined and jerked in his seat.

"M' fine." Lockdown managed to speak, the vibrations assaulting his valve ceasing as quickly as they had begun. Exhaling sharply, he relaxed his notable sly grin returning. "Primus kid what did ya put in my drink?" He grinned at Prowl's unimpressed expression. "I'll bet you have that effect on all the mechs." He winked once more, determined to get under the ninja's armour.

Rolling his optics, Prowl shook his head and went about serving another customer. "You're insufferable you know that?"

"Gaahh Primus!"

The mech Prowl was serving jumped at the sudden outcry and Prowl himself was rather taken aback by the profanities now exuding from Lockdown's vocaliser.

"Lockdown, what ARE you doing?"

Lockdown stared at Prowl with wide optics and now flushed faceplates and at the sound of his name, the vibrator activated once more. "Oh frag!" He growled, his frame shuddering with renewed sensation, before sliding to his knees to ease the movement within his valve.

Prowl was now completely baffled and more than a little concerned by the groans coming from the floor. Every mech in the building had stopped to stare at the spectacle. Lockdown dragged himself to his feet. Meeting Prowl's curious optics he held up his hand as Prowl's mouth opened to speak.

"Don't say a word." He breathed. "Not one word." He staggered towards the washrooms, muttering a litany of curses, leaving Prowl frowning after him with bemusement.

****

Lockdown pressed his palm onto the smooth tiles of the washrooms, taking a moment while his valve calmed down. Once settled, he tucked himself into one of the private stalls and frowned, his optics looking down his body in confusion.

"What the spark is goin' on?" He mumbled to himself with a growing scowl. His valve ached, the vibrations had taken him by surprise and – he had noted with a little confusion – the device, what ever it was, was activated by the sound of Prowl's voice. It had happened when he had said his name and when he'd told him he was insufferable. Lockdown dreaded to think what else it was programmed to respond to.

Now while he enjoyed the sound of those fluid vocals, he did not want his valve spasming uncontrollably - and driving him into a public overload - every time the 'bot spoke to him. That would not do, not do at all.

He pursed his lip components and thought back over his last few cycles. Who could have done this to him and why?

First things first however, now he had to get the damn thing out of his valve. He sat down on the small bench and retracted his interface cover. He hissed pushing an un-lubricated finger into the entrance; pushing it deeper, he fidgeted and winced, the tip of his finger brushing against something solid. He let out a groan, resorting to shoving his finger all the way into his valve to gain purchase on the miniature vibrator.

"GaaaAAHH!!" Lockdown whipped his finger out of his valve and replaced it with two fingers. His mouth parted in a silent moan, the lining of the valve quivering in response to his thick fingers thrusting into his valve. Clenching his jaw he reached deep inside, lubricant was building up inside and try as he might Lockdown could not dislodge the toy from its position.

He tried once more, his thick fingers cramping at the sheer angle of attack. Lockdown shuttered his optics all arousal bleeding from his frame when the ache spread through his fingers. He needed something smaller, more flexible. His fingers were simply to large for such a delicate job.

"Frag it!" He withdrew his wet fingers once more and rested his helm against the cool wall. Now what?

This was not how he had wanted tonight to go. Why was it whenever he actually wanted to have a spark to spark with that slaggin' ninjabot the universe conspired against him? He fought back a smirk at the thought of Prowl's face when he'd revealed the news of his newly acquired job. It was exactly as he'd expected; shock, composure, followed by that all too familiar disdain.

Primus could that mech make disdain look inviting. Totally, the opposite effect of what Prowl was more than likely going for but then that impassable front was all an act after all wasn't it?

Lockdown knew that the uptight ninjabot was attracted to him; he wasn't THAT gullible, but to get Prowl to actually admit it and Primus willing, act on it? Well that would take an act of Primus himself, or just one very persistent bounty hunter.

If there was one thing, Lockdown knew how to be, it was persistent. He didn't just want any old quick interface either; he wanted Prowl and all the stuffiness that entailed. Lockdown scoffed at the thought, annoyed by his own silent admittance. It had long since ceased being just about lust.

That slender 'bot had him so tightly wrapped around his little finger Lockdown could barely hold it together when he was around him and the crazy thing was; Prowl didn't even know it.

A sly thought crossed his processor. Prowl WAS a slender 'bot indeed, slender usually meant thin, long fingers.

Lockdown shook his head at his own twisted sense of humour and replaced his interface cover. With a quick glance round made his way back out to the bar. He was going to need help and there was only one 'bot he felt comfortable asking.

****

Prowl was quick and very adept at his job so customers never had any complaints, nor did they have to wait for their drinks. He wound his way across the room, placing drinks on individual tables as he passed using all the agility his ninja training graced had bestowed upon him.

At one point, he flipped bodily over a table, tray in hand to avoid colliding into a couple of overcharged mechs. Chromia scoffed from her vantage point on the podium. "Show off."

Prowl simply threw her a look before vaulting with one hand over the next table, without spilling a drop. Shaking her head, the femme had to admit he looked damn fine when he moved like that.

Prowl enjoyed the small chances he got to practice his training, even if it was only while serving drinks. It was a workable distraction at the very least and he was determined not to let Lockdown get under his armour figuratively and literally.

Definitely NOT literally. Although the news that he would soon be working with the former bounty hunter filled him with something close to excitement or was it dread? He hadn't really figured that one out yet and refused to waste any more of his time or processor dwelling on the matter. They would be colleagues, nothing more, nothing less.

He was sufficiently distracted by the green mech that he didn't notice when the mech in question exited the washrooms and made his way over to the bar entrance. Busying himself with the gathering up of empty cubes and glasses and placing them on a tray, Prowl headed back to the bar.

"Hey kid, you busy?"

"GAH! Primus!" Having not noticed Lockdown until that very moment, Prowl jumped back, startled sending a couple of glasses tumbling to the ground, only for them to be caught by the quick reflexes of the one handed ex-ninja.

"What are you doing?!" Prowl glared at the larger mech. "You can't be back here, this is for staff only." He elbowed his way past and set the tray down on the bar.

"I am staff." Lockdown stated with a lop-sided grin.

Prowl turned back to face him with growing ire, when the green mech didn't move. "Lock…"

"AH!" Lockdown reached forward sharply and covered Prowl's mouth with his hand. "Don't say anything kid; just listen 'kay?"

Prowl, completely shocked by Lockdown's forward and unusual behaviour gave a quiet squeak and nod of assent. Slowly Lockdown removed his hand.

"I need your help." Lockdown rubbed the back of his neck in growing embarrassment, he never asked for help, ever. "I umm… have a small problem and you're kinda part of it soo… I need you to help… err… fix it."

Prowl opened his mouth to speak only to have Lockdown take a sudden step back and raise his hands as if he'd just been burned.

"Don't speak kid; just nod your head if you're willing to hear me out."

Lockdown watched that small mouth purse into a point, a suspicious brow quirked above the sharp visor. "Primus kid, come on! It's not like I'm asking for yer life's energon."

Prowl clenched his jaw and vented a cycle of air, folding his arms across his smooth chest.

Lockdown seemed to know exactly what he was thinking, which both unsettled and intrigued him.

"I swear no tricks, I really do need yer help here Prowl."

Frowning at the use of his designation, Prowl relented. Lockdown never spoke his name aloud, almost as if it would taint him somehow, it was always kid or darlin' and other such less desirable nicknames but never Prowl. Holding up a digit, signaling Lockdown to wait, Prowl removed his apron and ventured over to the main door to ask Brawn to cover the bar.

Lockdown took in a breath of relief when Prowl returned and muttered a thank you to the smaller mech who gestured for him to follow.

"Fascinating." Forgetting himself briefly Prowl couldn't help but respond to the rare show of gratitude. He instantly covered his mouth with his hand when Lockdown cursed loudly and fell to his knees.

His faceplates flushed at the wanton low growl that rumbled through Lockdown's vocaliser and it soon drew attention from other customers. Ignoring his own embarrassment Prowl grabbed Lockdown's arm, heaved him to his feet, and led him half-stumbling into the organic room. His audio bristled at the sound of Chromia's teasing coos cut off by the door shutting firmly behind them.

Whirling around to face Lockdown, Prowl planted his hands on his hips and glared. "Will you tell me what's going on now?"

Lockdown winced as Prowl spoke, frowning when the vibrator didn't activate. "Huh, must only be certain words." He muttered to himself.

"What?"

Remembering his sole reason for being in this, strangely exotic room, Lockdown shot a glance across at the irate ninjabot. "I'm not sure how to say this… soo… I'm just gonna say it." Squirming a little under the fierce scrutiny of Prowl's gaze Lockdown took a deep intake. "I have something stuck."

"Stuck?" Prowl repeated non-plussed.

"Yeah, in my valve."

Blue optics widened and Prowl's mouth fell open. Lockdown quirked a brow and grinned. "You just gonna stand there gawpin' kid?"

"How did you?" Prowl shuttered his optics and held out a palm. "No… I don't want to know." He sighed a small scowl forming on his face plates. "You need help… ahem… removing it?"

"That's about the gist of it yeah." The larger mech's grin widened. "Think yer up to the task?"

"I'll live." Prowl pointed across the room, before turning to rummage in a draw. Turning back, his frown deepened. "Get on the berth."

"Darlin' I thought you'd never ask." Lockdown winked as he hitched himself onto the padded surface.

"Lie down." Prowl spoke blankly, his face devoid of emotion.

"Ooohh so dominant, I had no idea." Came the teasing droll.

Sighing Prowl threw him a calculating glare. "Do you want me to help or not?"

"Alright, alright." Lockdown chuckled softly. "I'll behave."

Climbing onto the berth, he gently slapped the inner sides of Lockdown's thighs, prompting him to spread his legs so he could position himself between them.

Lockdown lay back on the berth. "This was not what I pictured goin' down when I first got you on a berth with me."

"Lockdown please." Prowl retorted in exasperation, the bounty hunter's flirting was borderline desperate.

"NNgggghhh…" Lockdown arched as the vibrator rippled the lining of valve in deliciously sweet movements. He hissed, his interface cover retracting automatically at the pleasurable sensation. "Not the name kid." He groaned.

Prowl couldn't help the heated flush rising in his face. Picking up the tool he'd brought with him, he took a deep intake of air and leaned towards Lockdown's interface components. The narrow tongs breached the entrance of the lubricated valve and the large mech bucked sharply hissing in discomfort.

"I'm sorry." Prowl drew back instantly. "Did I hurt you?"

Another chuckle sounded from the head of the berth. "Nah kid, just cold. What the frag are you usin' anyway better not be no organic slag?"

Prowl rolled his optics. "It's just a tool, they're clean."

"That's not what I asked now is it?" Lockdown growled, propping himself up on his elbows.

"No they're not." Prowl glared at him, his hand slapping to his broad chest, pushing him back down onto the berth.

"Hell, if ya wanted to be on top darlin' you should a' just said."

"Does your processor concentrate on anything other than interfacing?" Prowl muttered, his helm dipping once more as he reached for the valve.

Lockdown laughed a deep throaty bellow of a laugh. "Not when I've got somethin' as fine as you perchin' between my thighs." He bucked his hips for effect, his grin spreading across his white face when Prowl drew back, his cheeks darkening with a deep hue of a red flush.

Prowl pressed his lip components into a thin line, Lockdown had no intention of making this any easier and it was awkward enough as it was. Wasting no more time, Prowl plunged the tool into the wet valve, allowing himself a tiny smirk when Lockdown fell back and moaned loudly. Pushing the metal tongs as far as they would go, Prowl opened them slowly, his optics glancing up every now and then, when Lockdown squirmed or grunted.

Due to the movement in his valve, Lockdown felt his intakes hitch and fought the base programming threatening to switch on his cooling systems. The cool metal inside him poked and prodded the lining of his valve at uncomfortable angles. He felt it slide in further and bit back a whimper as the tongs opened slowly.

"Just get on with it." He growled through gritted denta.

Prowl frowned. "I think I've got it."

"Mmmm." Lockdown didn't trust himself to speak coherently at the moment, the small thrusts of the tongs were sending ripples of pleasure through his valve, the tongs pulled back and a gasp escaped his parted mouth. His optics shot open when he heard Prowl swear softly.

"What, what is it?"

Prowl held up the tongs, covered with his fluid. "I'm sorry… the lubrication is making it… difficult."

"Then use somethin' else." Lockdown grimaced.

Prowl sat back, discarding the used tongs. The device was too small and too smooth for the fine metal to get a purchase, not to mention all the lubricant seeping from Lockdown's obviously aroused valve.

"Lockdown?"

The large mech bucked and cried out as the vibrator activated once more. "Oh Primus kid! Why?"

"I'm sorry!" Prowl got worried when Lockdown continued to writhe on the berth, his intakes shortening to pants. "What's wrong?"

"Slaggin' Nngghh… thing… not turnin' off….guuuhhh."

"I have to use my…"

"I don't care!" Lockdown snarled, his hands clenching to fists, heat rising rapidly in his groin. "Just get it out!"

Prowl nodded, more to himself. Nothing for it. Bracing a hand on one of Lockdown's large thighs, Prowl shuttered his optics and plunged a finger into the moist, clenching valve. The subtle vibrations sent a tingling into his finger, making him gasp softly.

Lockdown arched and moaned, his optics dimming at the feeling of the slender finger pushing deeper inside him. He whined through his vocaliser as Prowl's searching finger stroked against numerous sensor nodes, that were all crackling with pent up energy.

Prowl's lips parted at the sound of the wanton growls rumbling from deep inside Lockdown's chest. He drew his finger out slowly and pushed back with two fingers, scissoring the digits as he felt the end of the vibrator brush against his fingertips.

Try as he might the ninjabot struggled to keep his stoic, impassive demeanor at the sight of the writhing, moaning mech in front of him. He felt his own interface components reacting to the sound and fought back a moan, concentrating instead on the vibrator. The small vibrating toy stubbornly refused to dislodge from the throbbing, tightening valve.

Prowl could feel the charge building through his fingers, Lockdown was close to overload. Swallowing the last of his proud restraint, Prowl buried his fingers completely in the quivering valve and his lips twitched into a smug smirk as Lockdown arched and bellowed loudly. His valve tightened with pleasure, squeezing Prowl's fingers as overload racked his large, powerful frame.

The clenching motion pushed the vibrator, shifting it.

"Yes." Prowl hissed to himself as he gained purchase on the tiny device and yanked it from the valve with a slick, wet pop.

"GaaaAAHH!!" Lockdown groaned and fell limp against the berth, his intakes shallow and rapid, trying to cool down his overheated frame.

Prowl backed off, discarding the glitching vibrator. He brought his hand up to his face, his fingers coated in Lockdown's fluids, the very idea of it was more arousing than he wanted to let on, he grabbed a rag and quickly wiped the lubricant from his fingers.

He was feeling altogether a little self-conscious all of a sudden. His optics drifted over Lockdown's frame, his own arousal going unheeded. Shaking his helm subtly, he turned away and waited for Lockdown to calm down.

Lockdown keened with relief, his valve ached and throbbed. His lining still tingled with residual pleasure. On lining his optics, he spied Prowl perched on the edge of the berth, his back towards him. Smirking, he pushed himself up and sidled up to the slender frame, noting the increased temperature emanating from his armour.

"Get you all worked up kid?" He grinned mouthing the words into the nape of Prowl's neck. "Let me return the favour, consider it my thanks."

He took advantage of every second that Prowl didn't pull away from him, his large hand running down Prowl's back struts. Pushing his luck, Lockdown ran his glossa along the exposed cabling in Prowl's throat, his sharp hook pulling the ninja back towards him by the waist. He smiled into the crook of Prowl's neck when the 'bot moaned softly.

Letting out a needy growl, Lockdown took hold of Prowl's shoulders and pulled him flush to his frame, he cupped the back of Prowl's helm and planted a deep, sensuous kiss onto that parted, inviting mouth.

Prowl whimpered as the warm, ever moving glossa invaded his mouth, caressing his oral plating, wrapping around his own, battling it for dominance. His intakes hitched considerably as Lockdown tightened his grip around his waist and pulled him closer. Prowl felt like he was drowning wanting nothing more than to lose himself in that circuit tingling kiss.

A voice screamed at the back of his processor to give in, to allow the bounty hunter what he wanted. To allow himself a moment of indulgence in something he'd desired for longer than he cared to admit. He moaned into the kiss, feeling Lockdown's passion burning into him.

_You're a whore of a bot aren't you?_

Another voice, too familiar for comfort bled into Prowl's cortex. He gasped and broke the kiss, his optics wide, his intakes panting. Lockdown grunted in confusion and leaned forward to engage Prowl's lips once more.

_Go on you know that's all your worth, all he wants._

"No!" Prowl yelled, his hand slapping into Lockdown's chest, pushing him away.

"What the spark kid?"

_One good, hard interface._

"I don't want that!" Prowl stared stricken at Lockdown, responding more to the voice taunting him than to Lockdown's somewhat injured expression.

Prowl dropped his gaze, shaking his helm, the voice fading to a whisper. "I'm sorry, I can't…"

Lockdown drew back, he was getting mighty damn tired of the kid getting him riled up, only to have him bitch slapped back into reality. "What the spark you playin' at?" He growled lowly.

Prowl turned away, fighting the shame, that he'd kept buried for such a long time. "I…"

Lockdown grabbed his shoulder, his temper getting the best of him. "Look at me, I asked you a question. What the spark you playin' at?"

Prowl flinched from the tight grip, Lockdown held tight enough to hurt but not to maim. He could understand his frustration, but he couldn't allow himself to succumb, to let himself be vulnerable to another mech like… like him.

Then in a moment of absolute horror, Lockdown seemed to read his mind.

"What's he got that I don't?" He sat back on his legs, shaking his head at the mortified expression twisting Prowl's handsome features into someone he didn't recognize.

Prowl frowned in confusion. "Who?"

"Oilslick." Came the snarled response. "You'd share his berth, interface with him, but not me. I see how it is."

"What?!" Prowl's jaw dropped. "How did you?"

Lockdown quirked a brow at the stunned ninjabot and let out a sour laugh. "Oh you remember darlin' last time we bumped lips?"

Prowl cast his mind back, remembering that Oilslick had told Lockdown some part of his past, for reasons he could not fathom. "Oh."

"Yeah, oh." Lockdown huffed in frustration, pushing to his feet he glared at Prowl. "Don't worry darlin' I get it. Know when I'm not wanted." He turned to leave, determined to wash his hands of the uptight ninja for the last time. He ignored the dull ache in his spark as he unconsciously made his decision to walk away.

"It's not like that."

Prowl's soft reply was almost too quiet for Lockdown to catch, but catch it he did. He whirled around, feeling nothing but frustrated anger and stomped up to the dejected looking 'bot and grabbed him by the collar fairing, hauling him up roughly.

"What the frag is it like then?!" He roared.

Acting on pure instinctive reflexes Prowl landed a hard punch across Lockdown's jaw eliciting a yell of surprise and pain from the larger mech, who promptly dropped him.

Lockdown flexed his jaw and nodded appreciatively. "Alright, probably deserved that."

"That much is certain." Prowl growled dangerously, his posture ready to strike again, if Lockdown chose to retaliate.

Lockdown dropped his gaze and shrugged. "I'm not… I don't wanna fight ya Prowl… never have."

"Then what DO you want?" Prowl straightened, his face grim, hard.

"An explanation. Is that too much to slaggin' ask for?" He raised his voice once more, sensing Prowl retreating back into his cold, stuck up shell of defence. "Why the frag do ya keep messin' with my processor, sendin' out mixed signals. Only fer me t' find out you'd rather frag Oilslick!"

"Not willingly!!" Prowl bellowed back, his own chest heaving in anger.

A heavy silence reigned in the room as Lockdown stared at the slender mech stood before him, to his credit Prowl looked just as shocked as he felt.

Red optics narrowed menacingly. "Are you sayin' what I think you're sayin'?"

Prowl immediately tried to back track. "It's nothing." He ducked his helm, stared at the floor, willing it to swallow him whole.

"The slag it isn't." Lockdown growled, taking a steady stride towards him, only to have Prowl step back.

"It's none of your concern; it was a long time ago. I was young, foolish." Prowl's normally smooth vocals cracked subtly as he spoke.

Lockdown did not like seeing Prowl, the only mech to have survived being dead twice, looking so cut up, so unsure about something. Whatever it was clearly cut deep and Lockdown had no doubt that Oilslick was at the bottom of it. "What did he do to ya kid?"

Prowl's glared snapped up to meet his concerned optics. "Nothing!" He snapped. Turning his back, he snarled. "It's nothing, just leave it."

"Prowl, why won't ya just tell me that he took advantage of ya?! Primus kid, I already know he used ya!"

"Get out."

Lockdown felt like he'd been slapped in the face. "Prowl?"

"Lockdown…" Prowl glared at him with more ferocity than he'd ever seen the ninja direct at him. "Leave."

"We're not done." Lockdown growled, noticing Prowl's hard expression falter at his words. "Whatever he did Prowl…"

Prowl's shoulders slumped and he could no longer meet Lockdown's sincere gaze. "Just go." He interrupted quietly, no strength left to argue anymore. "Please just go."

The bounty hunter clenched his jaw and his fist, wanting nothing more than to take Prowl in his arms, he knew there was no way he could reach Prowl right at that moment, he was too buried in his own shame. Lockdown decided an impromptu visit to Oilslick was in order. He headed for the door, glancing over his shoulder, he took one last look at the black and gold mech that insisted on haunting his recharge cycle and sighed.

"This aint over. Between you and me." He assured confidently, closing the door with a click behind him.

Prowl sank to his knees and buried his face in his hands, wishing he could cry out, go after him, scream, forget. He looked up wearily and stared at the closed door, letting out a barely perceptible sorrowful sigh. "It never even began."

****


	26. Revenge

_A/N Following their First Date, Barricade has had *enough*. _

**Revenge** by antepathy

The Autobot medic had told Blackout that Barricade needed to rest to recover from the close-in hit with the up-modded stunner. To which Strika had added firmly that that meant 'none of ze intervazing', smirking when Blackout's face fell, and Barricade muttered a protest. Still, Blackout knew to follow orders—especially Madam General Strika's orders—so he'd insisted and dropped Barricade straight into the repair cradle they used in their open room in the cube.

Barricade hadn't protested that as much as Blackout had feared. Even more worrisome, Barricade hadn't even complained about Blackout flying him home. The copter knew that Barricade hated being flown—it must feel pretty scary up all that distance with no ability to generate lift on your own. He'd almost melted when, when he went to pick Barricade up, instead of squirming away, Barricade had grabbed onto his arms needily.

Blackout lay himself on the berth, trying really hard not to think that this was the first time he'd recharged alone since the end of the war. He hated this feeling. It felt…cold somehow. But the medic had spoken, and he didn't want to do anything that might stand in the way of Barricade recovering. He still felt he was partly to blame: if he hadn't gotten himself caught Barricade wouldn't have gotten himself hurt. And he looked like a mess. Barricade's teasing promise of detailing him would have to wait—Barricade was in no condition to do anything. AND, Madam General Strika would KILL Blackout. And probably Onslaught too, would be pretty mad if anything happened to the smaller mech.

Blackout had never seen Onslaught mad. He didn't think anyone had…and survived to tell about it.

He'd lost all his nice polish from the detailing, which made him sad. He'd really liked the way Barricade had looked at him, and had felt kinda sexy himself just walking through the streets of Iacon, other mechs checking him out. Barricade would do a way better job anyway, he thought, eagerly. But detailing would wait. Forever if necessary. Blackout just wanted Barricade to be well.

He tossed miserably on the berth, which suddenly seemed huge and empty. But this was necessary. And it wouldn't be for long.

But…what if Barricade needed him in the middle of recharge?

No. Resist the temptation, Blackout told himself. And he's better off in the repair cradle because it doesn't stress any of his injured parts. He grimly set his chrono alarm a few megacycles—he'd wake up and check on him mid-recharge. Compromise.

**

Blackout woke up before his chrono went off, from a memory purge that involved him getting bogged down in mud. He felt a weight across his legs, and sat up, carefully. While he'd recharged, his own systems had been working at his own injuries, and he felt worse today than yesterday. Typical combat stuff, though, he thought. Keep going because the second you stop, you drop.

He looked down, and almost whimpered. Barricade lay between his legs, hugging one leg, his head resting on Blackout's hip, his arm tires pressing on Blackout's pelvis. So…fragging cute.

Then it struck Blackout that Barricade must have woken up mid-recharge and missed him so much that he'd crawled out of the repair cradle and onto the berth. His spark ached at the thought. Poor Barricade! Waking up alone and scared and missing him. If he thought too long about Barricade crawling his way into the room, he'd get upset.

It took everything Blackout had not to scoop him up and pull him next to him. First off, because Barricade would punch him in the face if he knew Blackout had seen this. Second, it would definitely give Barricade _ideas_, and Madam General Strika was pretty adamant that two things Barricade was not allowed to have right now were interfacing and _ideas_.

Blackout lowered himself gently back down against the berth, flicking his rotors out of the way. After a long moment lying perfectly still, straining for any reaction from Barricade, he shifted his weight, as though still half-asleep, moving his legs gently.

Barricade groaned softly. Blackout lay still as he felt the smaller mech push, wobblingly, off him, releasing his clamped grip from around the copter's thigh. Barricade's chassis slid over the armor of the copter's thigh, as he tried to pull himself out from between Blackout's legs.

"Hey, stupid," Barricade croaked. "Wake up. Barricade's bored."

Blackout fought down a grin. "Not allowed to, Barricade."

"What General Strika doesn't know won't hurt me." He traced his hand over Blackout's chassis.

"No, really. You need to get well first." Barricade made a rude noise. Blackout blurted, "I'll tell…Onslaught!"

The four optics rotated up to his face. "You'd actually do it, too, wouldn't you, copter?" He frowned. "Fraggin' copter with his fraggin' loyalty."

"I want you to get better," Blackout said. "You gotta listen to the medic."

"First off," Barricade pulled himself shakily onto one elbow, "That medic was an Autobot. Everyone knows Autobots are wusses. Second, that Autobot is a foot perv. I don't trust him as far as I can point my dainty little toes."

"We can go see another medic today if you want," Blackout said. "But I don't know anything about medical stuff so until one of them says okay, you can't get me to do otherwise." He frowned, "Disobeying medics is the same as disobeying an officer."

Barricade wailed. "You're really going to stick to that, aren't you?"

Blackout could feel his resolve crumbling. He hated seeing Barricade unhappy. And if he was feeling up to it, maybe it wouldn't do any harm. And it would make Barricade so happy.

No. Barricade made…bad decisions sometimes. Like…the one where he rescued Blackout but didn't have an exit strategy for himself. He was all kinda smarts, but really wasn't the best decision-maker where his own wellbeing was at stake. Blackout would just have to be strong. No matter what.

"We can't!" Blackout said.

"Come on!! It's like…part of our date or something."

"No way! Besides, Sunstorm told me that nice mechs don't do it on the first date."

Barricade's optics bulged. "Are you fraggin' kidding me?"

"We've only been on the one date. And not even the whole date. Only like 85% of it." Blackout felt his resolve returning as the excuse built momentum.

Barricade looked ready to explode. "I hate you, copter," he hissed. "You have no idea how much."

Blackout tried not to flinch at the words. He was doing the right thing, he knew it. And Barricade would get over it. He hoped.

**

Barricade had relented enough to play a math game against Blackout on the datapad when their outer door chimed. They both looked at each other, unhappy.

"Skywarp?" Blackout groaned.

Barricade rolled his optics at the thought. "Right. When was the last time he didn't just pop wherever he wanted to go? Not even sure he knows about doorchimes. Probably terrified of them."

Blackout grinned as he limped over to get the door. He was in pretty rough shape himself, but nowhere near as bad as Barricade, and he was more used to fighting injured.

"Uhhhh, Onslaught!" He straightened up, abruptly, trying to ignore the lance of pain across his chassis. "Sir!"

"Blackout," the commander acknowledged, before pushing past him. He held a bag in one hand, several comm components stuck to his chassis. He walked into the recharge room, as though he lived here. Blackout had no choice but to gimp in after him, hoping Barricade had enough time between hearing Onslaught's name and now to prepare himself.

Barricade sat on the berth, flipping the datapad in suddenly nervous talons.

Onslaught held up the bag. It had the words "Café Outrage" emblazoned on the outside. "Brought you both some food. Figured you might not be up for getting some of your own."

"We have mil-rats," Barricade said, hotly. "Do us just fine."

Onslaught snorted in disdain. "Mil-rats are vile." He dropped the bag onto the berth and gestured to Blackout. "Unpack that."

"Yes, sir," Blackout said. He bent over the bag. Wow. Onslaught had brought a lot of stuff. Barricade's paranoia must be contagious, because the sight of all the food bundles made him a) hungry and b) suspicious as the pit. Why was Onslaught suddenly being nice?

"Café Outrage?" Barricade read. "That sounds…repugnantly cutesy."

"Yeah? You try telling that to Bonecrusher. It's his gig."

"Bonecrusher? Runs a café?"

Onslaught shifted on his feet. "Well, he's closing the café part and going to straight catering. There was an…unfortunate incident involving an Autobot not caring for the texture of the breadsticks and a plate glass window."

Barricade snorted. "Okay, NOW I believe Bonecrusher's involved."

Onslaught shrugged. "I believe in supporting his…less destructive endeavors. He makes a very attractive Sparkday cake, should you ever need one."

Barricade rolled his optics. "Attractive and probably lethal."

"No way!" Blackout said, his head buried in the bag. "Bonecrusher's awesome. He used to field chow for us for like holidays and stuff."

Terrifying thought.

As Blackout pulled out a handful of white-wrapped cubes, a flimsy fluttered to the floor. Blackout snatched it up with his free hand. "'Instructions,'" he read. "'I hope you appreciate the fraggin' favor, _Commander _Onslaught'." He looked up. "What? That's how he wrote it. 'I only presume you'll be sharing my hard work with some similarly palate-less morons. So, here are a few pointers, even though your crude tastes will not appreciate the difference.' Wow."

"Go on," Barricade said, sniffing one of the cubes, dubiously.

"'First off, do NOT use a convection heater to reheat. Only culinary infidels and Autobots,'" Blackout stopped, his facial plates heating. "Uhhhh, I don't know if I know that word."

Barricade snatched it from his hands. "Right. No. You do not know that word. Nor should you." He glared at the copter, then picked up reading. "'Autobots who—uhhh, censored—use convection." He skimmed down, mumbling words to himself and snickering. "'En croute?' What the frag is a 'croute'? Blah blah, 'I hate mechs who use the wrong utensils'—uhhh, he's in for a treat. Don't think we have any utensils—'the sauce is appropriately spicy and anyone who says otherwise is a', uhhhh, censored again, and ANOTHER word Blackout should not know, 'you owe me so fraggin' big, Bonecrusher. PS, thank you for your order! =D'?!" He looked up. "Wow. I thought I had adjustment issues."

"Difference of kind, not degree," Onslaught said, pointedly. He reached for one of the cubes himself. "Now, you two start eating or I'm going to tell Bonecrusher."

Blackout had laid out the contents of the bag in rows, each packet carefully numbered, apparently, as much as Barricade could figure, in the order of consumption. Barricade sighed, and obediently took another cube marked '1'. "This," he said, "is ridiculous. Energon is energon. All he did was warm this up or something." He pierced the seal with one talon and took a sip.

"Whoa!" Blackout said, rotors flaring in surprise. No, that wasn't distracting at all, Barricade thought sourly. "This is way better than mil rats."

Onslaught smirked, taking some of his. "I think the next has the noodles in it."

"Huh," Barricade said. "It's okay, I guess." He snatched the next packet.

"Seem awfully eager to have more," Onslaught noted.

"I just enjoy eating on your credits," Barricade said, ripping open the second package.

"Hey, uh, Barricade, I don't think you're supposed to start number two until you've finished number one?"

Barricade looked scornfully at Blackout. "How's Bonecrusher gonna know?"

"I'll tell him," Onslaught said. Barricade looked at him through narrowed optics.

"You would, too, wouldn't you." He frowned, putting down the packet of noodles and picking up his broth cube again. "Fine. Seriously." He tried to frown and drink at the same time.

"Thanks for this," Blackout burbled. "Commander Onslaught, seriously. You didn't have to do this for us and stuff."

Onslaught smirked. Barricade wanted to pop him one across the face for it. "After last night, I didn't think either of you would be up for taking care of yourselves."

"Take care of ourselves just fine," Barricade muttered into the last of his warm broth. He decided he hated deliciousness. Just because Onslaught was involved. And that he couldn't stop eating it. He brandished his empty cube, and grabbed for the second packet again.

"I'm sure you can," Onslaught said, more than a little condescending. "But I figured no one—least of all, you, Barricade—objects to a free meal." He finished his own broth cube, and started opening his second packet. "Besides. It was a good cover."

"Ha!" Barricade said, looking up from the packet of noodles. "I figured as much. You have about as much compassion as a rusted flywheel." He tilted his head, studying the noodles. How do you eat noodles? Well, with your hands, apparently. He reached to grab a handful.

Onslaught slapped his hand aside. "Here," he said, impatiently. "Learn to be civilized. Sometimes, Barricade, I swear it's like you were raised by space wolves." Barricade took the pincer utensil he offered with as much ill grace as he could summon. He secretly had half a mind to eat the noodles with his hands, anyway. But Onslaught thought he didn't know how to eat with utensils? Ha. He'd show him. Totally civilized.

Blackout took the proffered tool graciously, and watched Onslaught for cues how to use it. He hesitantly prodded his noodles with the pincers, almost yelping in surprise as they grabbed some.

"I have more compassion than you give me credit for," Onslaught murmured. "Such as the 'keep Barricade out of the brig' kind."

Barricade glared. "One day you'll get tired of reminding me about that."

"One day." Onslaught grinned. "Not today, though." He took a mouthful of noodles. "And yes, I had a reason to come here. We have reason to believe that, for once, your paranoid suspicions are correct, Barricade, and that the attackers who went after the two of you in Iacon are after you because of your present position."

Barricade suppressed a snarl. So…Blackout nearly dies, because of this fraggin' stupid job. Frag it! NOTHING went right in Barricade's life. He put the noodles down.

"Eat up, Barricade," Onslaught said, gesturing with his pincers.

"Not hungry," he grumbled. He was ready to drag himself off the berth and lock himself in the maintenance fac, AFTER quitting this stupid job and punching Onslaught in the face, until Blackout interjected,

"Barricade? You gotta eat. Or you won't get better." The copter's olive green facial crest furrowed with worry. Frag. Barricade picked up the noodles, stirring them listlessly.

Onslaught watched the little scene play out with patent amusement. "My point is that it's a problem. And I thought you might want to be in on the solution." He nodded to himself as Barricade's optics narrowed. Oh yes, Barricade was very interested. Onslaught unclipped one of his portable mods. "If you got a flashsnap of the attackers, even just one of them, it's a place to start." He held it out to Barricade.

"Frag right I got flashsnaps," Barricade muttered. "Think I fell of the intelligence truck yesterday?" He put his pincers down and pulled a small cord from its housing behind one audio and plugged it into a jack in the mod. He held up the output display to Onslaught. "This is the only one I could get a clear frontal shot on. This is flatbed they took Blackout away on—probably a dead lead but we should run it down anyway." Onslaught nodded. "And this is the chopper they were using." Blackout craned his neck to see. Barricade tilted the display away from him. He didn't want Blackout to see himself, unconscious, injured, leaking energon from a half-dozen places, so close to a chopper's toolrack. Slag, Barricade didn't want to see it himself.

Onslaught grunted. "Right. I'll have Vortex run them through our databases. We'll find something." He took the mod back and stuck it back against his winch by its magnets.

Damn right you will, Barricade thought. And when you do….

**

Vortex commed Barricade a few hours later. Barricade was…irritable to begin with: the repair clinic they had gone to had cleared Blackout entirely, but insisted that Barricade needed more monitoring. Meaning…no interfacing. Barricade sensed a conspiracy. He'd growled at the medic until Blackout had dragged him out of there. Standing between him and the only thing that made life worth living. Frag. Stupid medic was so ugly he probably couldn't get laid with a can-opener so he didn't want anyone else to have any fun, either.

It had taken megacycles after that to convince Blackout that they could actually cuddle without danger. Of course, it was a total lie. Barricade completely planned to wait until the copter fell asleep and then…see what he could do. See how the copter responded to some rotor rubbing.

He knew how he responded to just the idea.

So…he was less than perky when he answered his comm. //WHAT?!//

//Huh,// Vortex muttered. //I guess I owe Onslaught that money now. He said you wouldn't be allowed to interface and it would make you…less than charming.//

//You tell Onslaught,// Barricade seethed, //that it's his fraggin' stupid fault that this happened to begin with and the least he could do is not profit off my distress. Or…at least share half.// That sounded fair. He struggled to calm down, just to prove Onslaught wrong. //Now, why're you bothering me?//

//Thought you'd want an update. The mech you have the full face on is called Backslash. Neutral, more or less thugged his way through the war, double dealing to both sides. Obviously not too great at it because he's still only street-level. The vehicle was a rental ran us nowhere other than a location. But…the account number to pay for the rental—and this is why this Backslash guy is small-time, because anyone smart would pay creds and not account—has also recently been used in a number of bars and other places of…questionable repute in the suburbs of Iacon .//

//Hangout, then.//

//Most likely. We don't know how the mech makes a living. We can't tap the account without setting off alarms, and the fact that it HAS that kind of security tells us plenty.//

//What are Neuts doing in Iacon?//

//A question that deserves an answer.//

//Right.//

//Onslaught, incidentally, says he really wants to know…and isn't that picky about methods.// Well, why would he be? Neuts didn't fall under Sentinel Magnus's protection. They fell under nobody's. Problem when you refuse to choose sides: the sides refuse to choose you.

Barricade turned his head away from the snoozing copter, just in case the copter woke up, he couldn't see the feral smile spreading over Barricade's face. Poor copter thought Barricade was a nice mech. And for a change, Barricade really didn't want to ruin that illusion. //Understood,// he said. He clicked off, looking back over to the copter's bulk. Blackout napped like there was no tomorrow, his vents cycling in the air in warm fuzzy pushes, optics shuttered, face serene and…ludicrously hot. Barricade figured he deserved some pre-action, well…action.

He nuzzled against the copter's shoulder, one taloned hand stroking gently over the bulky chassis. Blackout gave a murmuring kind of purr. Rowrf. One day, Barricade thought sadly, the copter was going to realize how much better he could do than a terminal slag-up like Barricade.

His hand tightened around the armor. Almost tempting to keep the copter uneducated. But when he thought of the way Blackout's optics glowed when he passed a quiz, or when, during their date, he'd read one of the museum placards out loud…. No, Barricade couldn't help it. Matter of time before the copter ditched him, but…until then, right?

Barricade squirmed up, his hands reaching for the left-shoulder rotors. They were scratched, the beautiful paint job done by the detailing scraped and pitted and no longer shiny. He wanted to fix that. He could. 'Hog would loan him the equipment. He wanted Blackout to be as hot as he was—to walk with that sudden, shy confidence as he had after he'd seen himself in the detailer's 360 mirror.

But just because the rotors weren't glossy any more didn't mean Barricade didn't want them. He pinched a blade between his fingers, running it down the length. Blackout moaned softly, squirming his pelvis on the berth. Barricade grinned. Now, they were getting somewhere he wanted to go. He drew one leg over the copter's pelvic frame, sliding his thigh over the interface hatch, leaning in to nibble on the rotor. Blackout moaned again, his hands kneading the berth, twisting his body into Barricade's touch.

Frag yeah! Barricade thought. He wriggled closer, himself, nipping at the rotor blade's mount.

"Uh!" Blackout's optics onlined abruptly, his body going rigid. He looked over to Barricade, who quickly (enough, he hoped) shuttered his optics. "Nice try, Barricade," he murmured, shifting his hips out from under Barricade's knee.

Barricade yawned showily, letting his optic shutters droop. "Whuh? What'd I miss?"

"Come on, Barricade," Blackout said. "I know you were trying to disobey medical orders."

"Me?" He widened his optics in complete (and utterly false) innocence. "I would never! I must have been asleep!"

"Right. You were nibbling my rotors…in your sleep." Blackout narrowed his optics with suspicion.

"Hey! It could happen!" Barricade had the distinct feeling his lie was failing abjectly. "Not my fault," he grumbled, "you're so fraggin' hot." It was almost worth it for the copter's startled blush.

Blackout recovered slowly. "But…yeah, but you can't! The medic said so!"

Barricade gave a cry of frustration, flopping his back on the berth. "It's clear you want me dead. Dying of lack of interfacing."

"No—no one's ever died from lack of interfacing before," Blackout said, tentatively, "I think."

"Maybe they go unreported," Barricade countered, "by the vicious murderers who withhold the interfacing." Blackout stiffened, looking stricken. Barricade relented. "Fine. Not going to fraggin' die from it. Seriously."

Blackout pulled Barricade against him, squishing him against his chassis. "I just don't want you to get hurt, Barricade, that's all." Kind of ironic, since right now Blackout was squeezing the living coolant out of him.

"Not…helping," Barricade gasped. Seriously. Getting hugged by the copter was not helping his raging libido. Blackout released him. Barricade pushed away. "I'm getting up. You want something to eat?"

"Oooh, do we have any of the crispie energon treats left? Man, Onslaught has good taste in food."

"Reminding me of Onslaught will not help my appetite," Barricade muttered, "But it did totally kill the libido, so…hey…thanks." He couldn't stop a sly grin as he brought the packet of treats back to the berth. He looked out their narrow clerestory—lit up pinky orange. Sunset. Which meant the roaches would be coming out. Roaches like…Backslash. "Hey, copter? I'm gonna go out for a bit." This Backslash character needed a bit of a visit.

"Want me to come with you?" Blackout split one of the treats in half.

"No!" Barricade said, a little too quickly. Blackout froze, the two halves of the treat in his hands. Barricade snatched his. "Sorry. Just… want to get out by myself for a bit." Frag these damn treats were good. He crammed it in his mouth. Blackout's optics were wary. "Seriously. I get stir crazy stuck in a cube all day." Unnnn still not working. "It's not you! I just…well," Okay, smarty mech, lie harder, "I…was kind of upset seeing you get all hurt and stuff and I kinda need to just get, you know, like…moving and stuff to try to get over it?" He looked down at his empty hands, partly wishing for more treat to eat, but also hoping for distraction. That…came out a bit more honest than he wanted.

Blackout's lip quivered, but in a kind of sympathy. "Okay," he said. "I trust you."

Frag. "Trust me to…?"

"Know you're not going to find someone else to interface with."

Barricade's temper flared. "What?" His sticky hands balled into fists. "You really think I'd do that?"

"No!" Blackout's optics grew a little afraid. "I meant I knew you wouldn't."

Barricade felt himself shaking. "Right. Whatever. I'm so out." He stomped to the exit.

***

Lower Iacon was the same as any other urban-fringe Barricade had ever seen. It hadn't quite gotten on the post-war reconstruction bandwagon, yet, and bombed out buildings straggled next to small shops and shady businesses clinging onto life by feeding the borderline-legal appetites of the citizenry. Barricade had strolled—glad that his chassis was still scratched and dented to help him fit in better—around the area, locating all of the businesses on the charge-account list Vortex had sent him. Thinking, of course, what a low level scavenger might be doing. Was he still flush with cash? Barricade hated to think of the bastard profiting off of what he had planned to do to Blackout. In fact, maybe since the mission was incomplete, he'd not been paid in full. Which meant he'd be scrabbling for money.

Barricade staked out a few likely businesses where a part-time self-employed greasestain could rustle up some quick creds. He'd narrowed it down to the most likely: a scrap metal yard. The night had settled in around the city, and Barricade's dark armor melted easily into the shadows, only four glowing red optics, cycled low, gave any indication anyone was there.

He perked up as a grav sled mounted with a large bin rumbled inot the yard. Action. And the silhouette of the driver as he hopped off the sled and to the business office was unpleasantly familiar. Hello, Backslash, Barricade thought. Scrounging again. The thought that, had things gone otherwise, parts of Blackout might have ended up in that bin sickened him with a kind of nauseous rage he'd never felt before. Barricade watched as Backslash moved the sled to a mass scale, weighed it, and then dumped the contents onto a lading belt, returning the sled back to the scale to get the tare weight. When he left the sled again, probably to collect his payment, Barricade made his move, slipping through the shadows to the back of the sled, lifting the bin's lid just enough to pop through into the bin.

He waited as the motor started up, humming beneath his feet. He squatted down, bracing himself in a corner. Something else to add to a list of things that made Backslash an unlikeable loser: he was a terrible driver.

The sled slowed. Barricade rose to his feet, lifting the lid just enough that his optics could peer over Backslash's shoulder. Nice, dark parking garage. Subterranean. Oh, he could work with this.

He dropped heavily to his feet, setting his vocalizer to make a series of squawks and hisses and bleeps, readying his arms for the quick swing he'd have to make. He grinned wickedly as the bin lid lifted. The head peered over.

"Hey, what the--?" He heard a fumble for a headlamp. He waited until Backslash had activated his headlamp, sticking his whole head into the dark cavity of the bin. Barricade swooped his hands forward, grabbing the mech by the back of the head, overbalancing him and pulling him into the bin with him.

"HEY!" Backslash shouted. "Who the frag--?"

"Remember me?" Barricade hissed. He pinned the mech's neck with his forearm against his chassis.

"You!" the mech croaked. "The barfing one."

"Ha ha," Barricade tightened his grip. "So. How bout we have a nice civilized little discussion."

"Frag you."

"NOT," Barricade snarled, "right now. Doctor's orders."

"Get off me." Oh right. Bluster was just totally called for right now when you're on your knees, Barricade thought.

"Answers: who hired you?"

"Not telling you!"

Barricade dug the talons of his free hand under one of Backslash's cheekplates, prying up the armor. The mech squealed. "Let's see how long your loyalty lasts. Problem with mechs who hire you cred-a-dozen lackeys. Sometimes the higher bidder comes in."

"Frag yourself."

"Already used that one, rustnuts." Barricade's voice was cold.

Backslash struggled, trying to get his feet under him for upward leverage. Barricade kicked the instep, tightening his grip against the falling weight. A time like this when a smaller frame came in handy—Blackout's massive forearms were awesome (guh! Sexy!) but he couldn't throat anyone with them.

When in doubt and stupid, apparently, bargain. "Hey," Backslash said. "It was just a job, you know? Nothing personal." NOTHING PERSONAL?!?! He was willing to send Blackout to a chopper. Maybe it wasn't personal for him, but it was damn sure fraggin' personal for Barricade. Mess with Barricade, one thing. Mess with the copter, another.

Barricade fought with his boiling temper. Do NOT lose your cool.

"So," he said, coolly, "Let's not make it personal. Tell me what I want to know."

"I don't know anything! Everything was done through agents!"

"So…who was your agent?"

"Mech named like Slingslot or something. Didn't exactly meet up with him planning a honeymoon. His name was way less important than his creds."

"Faction?"

"I don't know! I mean, he wore an Autobot symbol but these days that's like a 5 cycle paint job or a magnet."

Good point. Barricade knew all about magnets. Still, a place to start. "Know anything else?" Barricade flexed his claws in front of the mech's optics.

"He was real mad when it didn't work out. Cut off our account access, the fragger. Go get him," Backslash spat, "not me. I'm the little guy."

"Yeah." Little guy with a big mouth. Which could flap both ways.

"Hey, uh…like I said," Backslash said, his hands clawing at his throat when Barricade didn't release his grip, "It was a job. Nothing against you or your whirlybird friend. Promise I won't go near him again."

"Notice," Barricade said, "that I didn't ask you for that. Want to know why?" He activated his blade weapon. "Because I know for fraggin' sure you won't." He plunged one spoke between the fingers he was bracing the neck with, into the main energon line, gritting his teeth in satisfaction as the blade jarred against a servo on the far side.

"Gaaaaaauhhh!" Backslash cried out, his energon rushing pink-purple and hot over Barricade's hands. Barricade retracted his blade, thrusting the dying mech to the bottom of the bin.

"By the way," Barricade said, "this isn't personal, either." As he watched the light die out of Backslash's optics, his comm chimed.

//On.//

//Hey, uh…Barricade? It's me. Blackout.// A pause. //Sorry, forgot you already knew that. Just wanted to let you know, you know, in case you like cared and stuff. I'm, uhhhh, picking up a half shift, covering for Lugnut tonight at Inamorato. //

//That's cool,//Barricade replied. //Didn't have to tell me.//

//I know. I just…didn't want you to come home to an empty cube and, you know, like, not know where I was and stuff.//

Fraggin' copter could stab him in the spark without even trying. He looked down at his energon-covered hands. //Covering Lugnut for what?//

//I don't know. Some big match coming up and it's like they have to check mods or something?//

//Okay. Hey.// He kicked at Backslash's body with one foot, grinning as the death-stiffened servos squeaked. //Mind if I stop by? If you get off early enough, you know, maybe we can do something cool.// He grinned. //Finish up our date so that when I do get cleared we can finally get back to action.//

//Really? That would be super cool!// The copter's enthusiasm was palpable. //Hey, you okay? I'm sorry about earlier. I know I shouldn't worry about you and stuff. You just… you know, mean a lot to me.//

//Yeah,//Barricade replied. He wiped the blade against the mech's immobile thigh. //Don't worry. Mean a lot to me, too, copterbutt.//


	27. The Things We Do For Love

_A/N: This is just a little continuation of "Parlour Trix" and "Sweet Nothings" packed full of juicy drama pluuuuuussss, some more information about Starsqueeeeem ^.^ I'm sooo itching to fully immerse him into this smutty little world and I fully intend to do so in my next update. ETA? Ummm....a week? I don't want to make any promises in case RL sneaks up on my with a massive time sink, but ideally, I'd like to have some solid Screamer ficcage in the next week. Soooo, all my dear and limited readers of "A Time for Trust" (xoxox I 3 you guys), your curiosity to Starscream's fate will be fully indulged very soon._

_**warnings:** Lockdown has a foul mouth, of both the Earthly and Cybertronian sort._

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**The Things We Do For Love** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

Fool. Sucker. Idiot...These were the words that paraded across Blackarachnia's processor as she closed Parlour Trix up for the evening. She had been duped, swindled and not even _by _Swindle. She should have known that greasy chemist was just pulling her legs—all eight of them.

She slammed the door shut then slapped the off switch on the 'Open' sign with enough force to crack the O's bulb. Bearing witness to her self-loathing tantrum was "Didums," the miniature sharkticon. He watched timidly from behind his aquarium's glass, unsure of what to make of his matron's atypically violent behavior. He could only hope it didn't interfere with the serving of his dinner tonight.

"'Gypsies' he said!" she exclaimed with frustration as she approached Didums's blue-lit sanctuary. "He actually expected me to believe that Starscream was captured by those…freakish…fabled…" she cut herself off, a long, fuming hiss escaping through her clenched teeth.

Didums ducked behind his castle when the lid to his home flipped up with a smack. He peeked out just enough to see her take his food container off the shelf then all his fears melted away when three-times his normal serving came plopping into the water. He was about to engage in the feast of his functioning but a jarring crash shook the entire store and sent him retreating in flash, burying his flat face into the colored-glass pebbles underneath his castle and tipping it over in the process.

Blackarachnia whipped her focus to the half-unhinged door then shuddered fearfully when her gaze was met with a pair of slitted red optics blazing through black and white tribal designs.

"Lockdown, wait," she pleaded but quickly found herself pinned to the shelves of chassis wax by a single, vengeful hand gripped around her throat.

"The fuck I ever do to you!?" spat the raging mech, his bared, gapped teeth hissing merely inches from her quivering lips. She tugged at his trapping hand with both of hers but couldn't so much as budge the clenching grip. "Why wouldja do that to me!?" he roared. There was an unmistakable pain in each of his gritty words and it rattled her chassis down to every organic wrapped wire.

"He said he had," her voiced strained pitifully, "information…about Starscream."

"The fraggin' pit you talkin' about?" Lockdown shouted mercilessly.

"Oil Slick," she winced at vocalizing the name, seeing the fury in Lockdown's optics emblazon to a dangerous delirium. "He said," she continued bravely, "it was just a prank…that no one would get hurt."

Lockdown stiffened, his grip letting up slightly but his chassis rumbling like an active volcano. His only outward movement was the steep rise and fall of his chest, each outtake venting hot air across her body.

"You tellin' me," he spoke with a quiet, carnivorous noise, "you stabbed me in the back for second hand information? Information that," his voiced hitched up a notch in volume, "that I coulda got ya fer free if ya'd bothered to pull yer head outta the jet stream for two kliks and thought to ask?"

"You…" the spider suddenly lost interest in the volatile situation she was in, "have information about Starscream?"

"Primus Trixie!" barked the mech as he released her, his tone as abrupt as his action. "That all you think about?" He turned his spiked back to her and was obviously fighting the urge to lay waste to the circular rack of "Playsis Cuffs" in front of him.

Blackarachnia rubbed her throbbing neck, her stare fixed on the troubled mech. Shame and guilt flooded her every transistor as she absorbed the injured state her piecemeal friend was in. He just stood there, head hung, assaulting fist balled at his side. The blue light from the aquarium reflected off his bone-white spikes, which seemed sharper than normal. This is not a mech she wanted to be on the bad side of, especially since he was the closest thing she had to a friend. She didn't want this; didn't want him hurt. How the spark was she going to make it up to him?

"Lockdown, I'm," she offered apprehensively, taking a step toward him. "I'm so sorry."

He didn't respond, didn't even move but she dared place a consoling hand on his back. "I honestly didn't think it would do any harm," she continued softly. He still didn't respond, simply hung his head lower and took a deep intake.

"What happened?" she inquired hesitantly.

The spikes on his hood stiffened with his back then he turned enough to offer a view of his deeply frowning profile.

"Nothing that wasn't bound to happen sooner or later, with or without your interference." He turned to completely face her, straightening his posture to fully exhibit their sheer size difference. He narrowed his optics and pressed a hard glare on her, shrinking her to a minicon's size. Whatever vengeance he was gearing up for, she was ready for it. She deserved it.

"You love that fraggin' jet?" he growled with a frightening sincerity, a tone that was so rare for his voice that it took her a moment to comprehend the utterly unexpected question.

"Do I…what?" her words stumbled out.

"You heard what I said," his voiced raised slightly in volume.

"I—I don't understand," she pondered, "how that's relevant?"

"It's relevant 'cuz a stunt like what you pulled is only forgivable if it was spurned by the processor-fraggin' influence a'love."

His words were daggers to her spark, leaving her speechless. She could only shutter her optics as she gazed into him because his expression screamed with a writhing intensity, revealing just how crippled he was by his uncontainable feelings. She wondered if he had ever known the pain of love before; ever suffered through the agony of being denied it. That was clearly was what happening to him in this moment and it appeared the helplessness of it all was eating him alive. There was a reason he had settled in the solitary existence of a drifter; it was a method to keeping neutral. He needed to be able to flee from any situation that posed too much of a threat to his comfort zone but probably never stopped to consider, before he took the dive, that love wasn't something that could be fled from.

She wanted to shrink away into oblivion. How rare was it that Lockdown would open himself up to anyone the way he does with her and yet look where it had gotten him. The kindred spirit who shared his plight of love sickness had just enabled the very reason why he shouldn't bother to trust anyone.

"Stop gawkin' at me like a damned fool and answer the question!" he took a menacing step toward her.

"Yes, I love him!" her outburst caught her off guard, leaving her dumbfounded. She never actually spoke the word in reference to Starscream before and it frightened her, like she just stepped across an event horizon to a hopeless reality.

Lockdown's reaction to her confession was the opposite of hers. His shoulders relaxed and his optics dimmed to their normal, dull red instead of a flaring crimson. "Thought so," he murmured, resting his hand on her shoulder then running a gentle digit over her collar. "Sorry 'bout yer neck."

She grasped his hand with both of hers and squeezed tight, pressing her cheek against it. "I'm the one who should be sorry." Her spark fluttered in relief and she immediately led him toward the back, stopping briefly to grab a container of wax from the cosmetic shelf. She pushed aside the heavy velvet curtains that divided the storefront from her private room and guided him into her candle-lit sanctuary.

"Damn right you should be sorry," the mech mumbled, his anger dwindling rapidly as he took in the plush elegance of her private parlour.

She signaled him to sit down on the berth, which he did without hesitation, but his movements were slow and easy. She couldn't help but notice his stare fix upon her potted plant collection, knowing well that she shared a hobby with the Autobot ninja that dominated his thoughts. The anguish in his face stung her deeply, making her wonder regretfully what had happened since the last time she saw him. She cupped his chin with her delicate claws and forced him to look at her.

"Talk to me…Tell me what happened." Her voice was low and soothing.

"Can't," he responded softly, resting his hand to her hip and dropping his gaze. "Ain't my place to tell ya."

She signed, brushing her thumb over his tattooed cheek then kneeling down next to him onto the berth."

"Hate ta say it gal," he began regretfully, "but I ain't in the mood tonight."

She never thought she would hear him say that but it wasn't a surprise to her. Emotional exhaustion aside, she pitied him for what her devious little toy must have done to him, especially if Prowl was the one triggering it. She knew exactly what those compact buggers were capable of, seeing how she made it a point to fully test her products before putting them on the shelf.

"What makes you think I was in the mood?" she offered playfully, scooting behind him then tugging him back so his head eased down upon her lap.

"Cuz I'm a hot piece of aft," Lockdown purred, allowing himself a smirk as he relaxed his body.

The spider chuckled lightly as he scooped her claws into the container of wax. She slowly smeared it across the broadest green stripe of his chest, leaving glistening streaks across his blacked-out symbol. The only color in that symbolic void was the yellow flickering light coming from the candles.

"Gonna make me pretty?" he quietly asked, shifting his head to find the most comfortable spot on her thighs.

"Of course," she replied with a devious smirk, both hands slowly spreading the translucent gel down his custom stripes. "You gotta look your best when you go beat the functioning pit out of Oil Slick."

Lockdown's smirk vanished instantly and his intakes hitched, jarring him from his relaxed state.

"Shhhh…take it easy," nursed the femme. She added a sensual kneading to the job on his chassis, her claw tips leaving circular patterns across his abdomen.

"That filthy fragger opened a can a coolant he wish he wouldn't have." Lockdown fought to remain calm, his hook digging into the satin sheet below him. "There's some lines ya don't cross, some sins ya just don't commit…Don't care what yer story is or whose insignia yer sportin'. Ain't no excuse for that weasel's actions…and I intend to make that vivid as a fuckin' solar flare to him."

His gritty vocals were the sweetest melody she had heard in a long time. She was tempted to interrupt him for fear if he continued the speech, she might fall for his wayward brand of heroics. What was it about those noble-types?

"Baffles me that you do business with him," he continued bitterly. "The spark you buy from him anyway?"

"Chassis wax," she said, the irony not sinking in until it was too late. Lockdown jerked his body as if to back away from the substance caked on his chest. "Not this brand!" she added.

He relaxed but his noes stayed crinkled at the bridge as he eyeballed his chest in waning repulsion. "Better not be!"

"As if I would do that to do after what I…" she hesitated for a moment of guilt, "just did to you."

"Speakin' a'which," mumbled the musclecar as he fought back his bitterness, "what'd you find out 'bout ol' Hot Wings?"

"Nothing!" she protested, her claws scraping across green paint. "That slimy…lubeleaker fed me a line of scrap!"

"Like what?" his tone was strangely assuming, barely bothering to make that sound like a question.

"Like…" she eyeballed the mech quizzically, her hand sliding down to rest on his flanks. "Starscream is being held captive by techno-organic—"

"Gypsies," he finished her sentence for her. She only looked upon him in annoyance. "Why do ya think that's a line a scrap? Makes sense to me." He shrugged.

"Of course it makes sense to you," she snapped. "You believe in that nonsense."

"Ain't no reason not to believe it. I seen proof a'there existence, vids and such, taken by EG surveillance cameras. One of 'ems a spider, coincidentally…named Tarantulus I think. Used to be a scientist for the cons, until the accident."

"Accident?" her interest was fully piqued. She never heard this much detail about the subject before and it made her spark race. She couldn't pinpoint if it was fear or anticipation that she was feeling, knowing there really were more like her out there.

"Yeah…experiment gone haywire, mutating…er, I mean altering him and two others into the earth creatures they were experimentin' on. From what I heard, they ain't all that frightenin' a bunch…just misunderstood is all."

Blackarachnia was frozen in silence, jolting slightly as the mech gently took her hand in his. She looked into his optics with a dangerous hope building in her spark. Could that ridiculous rumor actually be true? Could her discarded seeker really be in the clutches of these mystical outcasts? Was there something she could do to retrieve him, being one of the few bots these distantly kindred spirits might be willing to trust? Her processor filled with possibilities and fantastical images of rescuing her love, the look of gratitude on his beautiful face.

"Trixie!" barked the bounty hunter. "Reel yer processor back in a moment…here me out for a klik then ya can go driftin' back off into yer rose-tinted airfields and runways."

She fluttered her optics and refocused on the adamant tattooed face, her cheeks flushing with slight embarrassment. He brushed his thumb repeatedly over her hand, his brute features softening before delivering his next thought.

"Just…be patient. Let him come to you."

"How…" she gawped disbelieving, "how can he come to me if he's a prisoner? And how are you so certain he's even alive?" She banged her fist on his chest. "Why haven't you told me this sooner?"

"'Cuz," the mech barked, slightly annoyed, "he ain't a prisoner. In fact, I think he's allied with the preds but he needs to keep a low profile…got some big dogs out there gunnin' fer him. I didn't want ya to launch into some wild goose chase and get yerself _and_ him into trouble."

"Have you talked to him?!" she gasped.

"Nah…" he hesitated, clearly showing an apprehension to saying anymore.

"Tell me!" she snapped with a pressing to his chassis.

"Seen some recent vid feeds of him in the underground circuits…there's a hefty bounty on his head."

"Megatron?" she tensed in bitterness.

"Megatron's the least a'his worries. EG's still sore over war crimes, plus that rogue Quint has a pretty big grudge." He squeezed her hand tighter, urging her to relax. "Like I said Trix, just be patient. If you got something he wants, he'll come to you but ya can't go stirrin' up a hornet's nest now that ya know he's around…If he share's your feelings, he'll find ya."

This was all too much for her to take in. Allied with predacon gypsies? Hunted by Cybertron's big names? Starscream was sole mech responsible for keeping Cybertron out of the Quintessons' tentacles and this is the thanks he gets; the inability to safely walk down her streets without looking over his shoulder. Even if he wanted to come to her, how could he? Would he risk blowing his cover just to see her again? Did he even _want_ to see her again?

"What if he doesn't share my feelings?" her voice was almost a whisper.

Lockdown took a deep intake, his optics narrowing at what Blackarachnia could only deduce as the reality of love's possible futility.

"Then…" he offered with a hopeless admittance, "guess yer stuck with me."


	28. A Dish Best Served Part 1

_A/N: Some more angsty Lockdown and Prowl for you here with a smidgen of Oilslick thrown in. Continuing on from the Parlour Trix saga. _

_Warnings: sticky smexins, non con, forced and consensual drug use_

_Byte: Drug heightens pleasure centers of the cortex and is injectable. Highly addictive and dangerous_

_RAM: Disc placed on glossa, potent aphrodisiac. Addictive_

A Dish Best Served - Part 1 by Optimus Bob

Lockdown took one last look at the directions Blackarachnia had given him. This was the place. His red optics scanned the scrap metal plant and abandoned warehouse with suspicion, didn't look like much but then a lowlife like Oilslick would always choose to maintain a low profile, especially given his business practices. Lockdown let out a low growl, the mech probably made Byte right here and shipped it out under the guise of scrap metal recycling.

Lockdown was no fool; Oilslick was also a careful mech. There was no way he would be able to walk in the front door. The green mech grinned darkly as he scaled the back wall of the warehouse using all the ninja training his memory files would allow. When he was a student of Yoketron, Lockdown had been one of the best at using the shadows and unnatural darkness of enclosed spaces, there was no mech better at sneaking in. It had proven very worthwhile in his exploits as a bounty hunter and Lockdown had every intention of using it to his advantage now.

He slid into the upper vent on the roof and dropped lightly onto the dusty floor. Despite his large frame, Lockdown made no sound and immediately followed the shape of the room, keeping himself invisible from the red light of the cameras, blinking at him from all four corners of the warehouse. Mistake number one Oilslick, he thought to himself. Why would there be any cameras focused on the interior of an abandoned warehouse?

"Lesson one, never advertise your position." Lockdown muttered to himself, his mind drifting back to Yoketron's teachings. A pang of guilt washed over him as he thought of his old sensei, that was something else that Prowl held over his head. "One thing at a time Lockdown, one thing at a time." He told himself, returning his focus to the current problem he was handling.

Using the dark shadowy corners Lockdown spied what he was looking for. Glancing around, Lockdown gently tugged the latch and lifted the large metal sheet from the floor. Shining down a light, he smiled at the staircase leading into the floor. Taking another look around, Lockdown headed down the steps, lowering the metal sheet over his head.

He headed into the darkness, switching to night vision he could make out a neat room with a single energy signature. "Just as Trixie said." Lockdown smirked and switched off the scanner mod on his arm. Switching on his headlights he worked the small console and a shining blue orb burst into life. "Well, well, well a compact space bridge. Oilslick ya've been a sneaky mech. No doubt from the double crosser Swindle." He mused to himself, making a mental note to deal with his wayward business partner later.

He programmed the console to shut off after one jump and stepped into the vortex. His optics adjusted quickly when he materialised in a bright, clinical looking laboratory. Now this was more like it. Lockdown peeked out of the large shaded window. The streets of Kaon bustled right outside the mirrored window, nobody could see in, probably had no idea a Byte manufacturing facility was even there, right under their noses.

Lockdown cracked the joints of his hand and took a seat. All he had to do now was wait, more than enough time to focus on the absolute rage burning in his spark. Now he had nothing else to focus on, Lockdown passed the time by counting the many different ways he knew of how to dismember a mech and intended on using at least half of them.

****

Inamorato was busy, it was always the case on match days. The gladitorial arena was proving popular and with it came increased business. For this Prowl was grateful. Work kept him busy and the busier he was the less chance he would have to dwell on his troubled thoughts. Even meditation wasn't helping him, his mind too cluttered with thoughts of the past, of the present and Lockdown.

Prowl tensed at the thought of the bounty hunter. He'd never seen Lockdown get so worked up as he was the night Prowl let slip a little truth about his affiliation with Oilslick. In truth Prowl was mortified that Oilslick had insinuated anything, once again opening doors to the past, just as he promised he would. He always found him, he was always there in the background lurking. It was only since dying, twice, that Prowl had truly come to appreciate his life and that had meant reintegrating that darker part of himself that he'd hidden and buried for so long.

He had done many things for Oilslick and had suffered at the mech's cruel form of appreciation too. He was scarred and he knew it, he wasn't really sure he could let a mech like Lockdown get close. He was so similar to Oilslick in so many ways, but there was something else about Lockdown, something that Prowl felt drawn to. A deeper sense of honour resided within the spike armoured mech, a certain degree of morality, but then he was still a killer, a bounty hunter. Prowl fought hard to keep that cold truth at the fore front of his processor. No matter what he may or may not be feeling towards the gruff mech, that truth couldn't ever be erased. Prowl knew this from personal experience, he knew it very well.

At this point Prowl wasn't certain that he ever wanted to see Lockdown again, if only to give him a little bit of peace of mind that he wasn't the cause of Lockdown's obvious emotional confusion. If they didn't see each other then feelings would fade right? That's how it was supposed to work.

Prowl glanced towards the door, Blackout was laughing heartily with a customer while still maintaining a wary vigil. He noticed Barricade sat not so far away, he was well aware they were in a relationship and the smaller mech was fiercely protective of Blackout. He sat close enough to the 'copter to be in his presence, his head buried in a datapad, but not close enough that he was intruding or interfering with Blackout's job as a bouncer.

Prowl frowned, Blackout had been asked to cover the door for Lugnut this evening, they really were that short staffed. Soon he would be teaming up with Lockdown who had gotten the vacant bouncer position. Prowl's tanks lurched, he would be this close to the green mech every evening. He suddenly felt a need to be somewhere else, to escape the pressure that the very building seemed to be exuding upon him. Prowl gritted his denta and turned away from the door to focus on organising the drinks. He needed to regain some control, some perspective. He needed to get away.

Prowl's face twisted into a scowl when his thoughts were rudely interrupted by a cheerful voice demanding his attention.

"Prowl ya need a break, I can feel the tension from over here."

"I'm perfectly fine thankyou." Prowl responded tartly.

Jazz shot Optimus a look and the larger mech shrugged. "Come on, we know there's somethin' on yer processor. We just don't want ya to bottle it up and hide away from us. We're yer friends Prowl." The white ninja drummed his fingers impatiently on the bar counter, prompting a stern glare from Prowl.

"We only want to help." Optimus added somewhat nervously.

Prowl sighed and turned to face his two friends. "Did Arcee send you?"

Optimus rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly before Jazz jumped in. "Nah, she just said ya've been workin' too hard and she was a bit worried about ya."

Prowl's small mouth pursed in disapproval. Jazz noticed his hands were forever cleaning something or rearranging the drinks' containers. "She shouldn't have called you."

"Is this about Lockdown?" Jazz asked darkly, his optics narrowing behind his visor when Prowl froze.

"Jazz!" Optimus hissed, quickly taking a seat beside the tactless ninja.

"What? Mech's bad news." He turned back to Prowl and frowned at the rigid posture of his fellow ninja. "She told us he'd got a job here and that ya might not be feelin' too hot about it. Apparently ya've been pretty sour with everyone since he…"

"It's got nothing to do with Lockdown!" Prowl snapped, averting his optics from the startled looks of his now worried friends. "It's just… I don't want to talk about it." He finished quietly.

"I can dig it." Jazz held up his hands. "But ya still owe us some time, we came all this way. How about indulgin' us with some mid-grade and sharin' it on yer break?"

Prowl opened his mouth to protest but guilt formed, at Jazz's warm smile and Optimus's hopeful optics, won out. They had come all that way just for him after all, it would be rude now to just turn them away and he suddenly felt the need for a break. Since Lockdown had left three solar cycles previous, he'd worked every shift and more, just to distract himself. He'd barely recharged and right now he was burnt out.

"Why don't you gentlemechs enjoy the rest of the evening?" Arcee's sweet voice piped up from across the room, her sugar pink frame heading towards them demurely. She never failed to attract the optics of many a guest as she past, Jazz and Optimus included. She smiled up at Prowl and placed an understanding hand on his arm. "You're stressed."

"I'm fine." Prowl began to insist.

Arcee laughed. "Even Chromia's avoiding you."

Prowl quirked an orbital ridge. "That's no bad thing." He mumbled.

"I'm sure it isn't, but I don't want to be responsible for my staff overworking themselves. Take the rest of the evening. Just clean up when you're done. Ok sweetie?"

"I…"

"I insist." She whipped off the red satin apron with a sharp flick of her wrist, ignoring the indignant squeak from the black and gold ninja. "Now get."

Prowl managed a half-hearted scowl as the small femme bodily pushed him from behind the bar. Jazz grinned and grabbed his arm. He led him to a quiet booth that Optimus has already reserved and handed him one of three waiting cubes of energon. "Drink up Prowl, we're not leaving until we get ya to unwind for at least a cycle."

The darker ninja took the offered seat beside Optimus and heaved a sigh. "I really should stop telling my friends where I work." He sipped the mid-grade. "They're a bad influence."

Jazz's grin widened at Prowl's tiny amused smirk. He raised his cube. "That we are mech, that we are. Cheers."

****

Oilslick entered his lab feeling rather pleased with himself. Blackarachnia had told him the deed was done and in return, he'd told her what he knew of Starscream, which in a pure twist of irony he'd actually found out from Lockdown, before their business relationship had soured.

He curled his upper lip in disdain. Once again that young Autobot had come between him and the success of his business. Oilslick in his error hadn't realised the extent of Lockdown's feelings for the elusive ninjabot and in telling him of his past affiliation with Prowl, he had inadvertently ruined the chances of a profitable collaboration.

He flexed his long fingers and clenched them into fists in frustration. Lockdown had no idea what he'd passed up. The profits from trading Byte would have given the foolish mech enough credits to pay off his debts and get the Death's Head repaired and space worthy again.

Oilslick shook his head, closing the hidden door neatly behind him. The fool had instead chosen to listen to his spark rather than his processor and that had cost Oilslick a great deal of credit. When Lockdown refused his generous offer, he'd had to search out another means to export Byte, which had taken both time and money and all because of that fraggin' ninjabot. A soft growl rattled through Oilslick's chest as he entered the brightly lit lab. He couldn't wait to get Prowl back in his clutches, the Autobot had made a deal with him a long time ago and Oilslick never forgot his contracts and nor did he ever break them. Prowl owed him a lot and Oilslick had every intention of collecting.

His processor still firmly locked in thoughts of reclaiming his lost, wayward property; Oilslick did not notice his visitor.

"Nice den ya got."

Oilslick froze to the spot at the sound of that familiar drawl, tinged with something else, something darker.

"Things I could do with a set up like this." Lockdown mused. His red optics focused on Oilslick and a sneer spread across his mouth. "Did ya learn nothing from ya time with ol' Yoketron Oilslick?" He pushed himself to his feet and took a step forward.

Oilslick instinctively took a step back, his hands scrabbling behind him for the door handle.

"Mistake number two. Never enter a room without checkin' out yer surroundings first."

Oilslick had no time to react as Lockdown snarled and lunged for him with surprising speed. Oilslick choked and his vocaliser emitted a burst of static as he was slammed into the door a strong hand gripping his throat.

"What have ya got against me huh?!" Lockdown growled. "And what the fuck did ya do to Prowl?!" Oilslick squirmed and gagged as Lockdown squeezed.

"Gaacckk…you're… accckk… a means to an… end" He managed to choke out, red optics meeting Lockdown's. "Not interested… guuhh… in spark led fools…"

Lockdown snarled and flipped Oilslick onto a workbench, his back landed with a satisfying crack, glassware and chemicals spraying across the immaculate floor. "What end?!"

Oilslick's chest heaved, his processor frantically trying to recall any of his training that he had sorely neglected and Lockdown clearly hadn't. First rule: wait. Let your opponent show his weakness.

"Prowl." He stuttered, the vice like hold not once releasing its crushing hold of his vocaliser.

Lockdown frowned and heaved Oilslick up to meet his furious glare. "What the fuck do ya want with him, haven't ya done enough?!" His voice was low, dangerous.

Bingo. Oilslick played it cool, well as cool as one could while being kept in a strangle hold. Prowl was Lockdown's weakness, he should have known. Second rule: press the advantage.

"Owes me…" He gasped weakly; the tight grip around his throat restricted energon to his cortex and was beginning to affect his vision. He had to stay online, there was a very strong possibility that if he didn't handle Lockdown - in the emotional state he was in - correctly, he would end up dead. Dead was not conducive to Oilslick's business plans. Dead was the last thing he wanted to be.

"He doesn't owe ya shit! Not after what ya did to him!" Lockdown drew back, his processor struggling to come up with any reason why Prowl would owe Oilslick. "I should just slag ya right here. Don't think anyone would miss ya all that much and it will get ya off Prowl's back."

Oilslick winced as cabling in his neck snapped. "I… have… friends."

"Yeah? Well so do I." He held up his sharpened hook. "Comes with me everywhere, now which optic should he take out first?"

Oilslick shrank back into the bench. Press the advantage. He met Lockdowns intense red optics. "You don't… know him… like I do." He snarled

He snarled and twisted his slender frame sharply. Mustering all of his strength Oilslick lifted his knee and felt his armour crunch against Lockdown's less protected side. The green mech grunted and flinched in pain momentarily relaxing his grip on Oilslick's narrow throat.

A moment was all Oilslick needed, lifting both knees and digging his heels into Lockdown's mid section the lithe mech grabbed Lockdown's collar fairing and rolled backwards sending the unbalanced mech toppling over his head. Lockdown let out a roar of frustration and spun round, lowered into a ready crouch he eyed Oilslick with narrow optics.

"I don't want to know him like you do." Lockdown growled with menace, drawing a blade from his armour and readying himself another strike.

Oilslick stood ready, his stance strong. "Oh? I thought you'd appreciate the uses of a pleasure bot." He sneered at the angry threatening glare on the white face and pushed further. "You have no idea what you're missing."

"Ya better watch ya fraggin' mouth." Lockdown hissed, gripping his blade tighter.

Oilslick's mouth widened into a leer. "He's quite the whore of a 'bot." He bit his lower lip suggestively. "Just needs a little push... now and then." He grinned darkly and tensed.

Lockdown shook with rage, just the thought of Oilslick with... it didn't bare thinking about. "GaaaAAHH!!" He sprang forward clashing violently with the thinner mech. Their hands and legs were a flurry of movement. They struck and parried move after move, one countering the other with a skill that only came with years of specialised training.

"Ya forced him ya worthless piece of scrap!" Lockdown roared sending a solid punch into Oilslick's helm. The narrow visage snapped back with a loud crack and Oilslick was sent careening across one of his benches. Mixtures of raw and processed Byte splattered onto the floor staining Oilslick's dark frame with bright blue.

He grasped a slender metal vial and with surprising grace flipped himself up and over the bench, landing a kick squarely in Lockdown's chest. Armour around the impact splintered and cracked under the force and Lockdown flew into the adjacent wall. "You're a fool if you think Prowl is the poor innocent mech he lets you believe."

Lockdown cried out as he slammed into the wall, Oilslick snarled and pinned the bounty hunter by holding a needle of raw unprocessed Byte to the throat. "That 'bot has a dark streak that would send a chill down even your back struts." He hissed, pressing all of his weight into Lockdown's injured chest.

"Still... doesn't excuse what ya did to him." Lockdown rasped painfully.

Oilslick smirked. "Oh Primus bless your naïveté." He rolled his optics, his voice taking on a decidedly darker tone. "It's not rape if he doesn't say no."

"Yer a filthy...ya drugged him!!" Lockdown squirmed only to gasp in pain when Oilslick pressed harder into his chest, the point of the needle scraping through his armour plating.

"Let me make one thing perfectly clear..."


	29. A Dish Best Served Part 2

_A/N: Part 2 - Please read the warnings! _

_Warnings: sticky smexins, mechxmech slash, non con, abuse, forced and consensual drug use. _

_Drug use and subsequent abuse physical and mental is not written lightly and these are serious issues I have faced in RL so please don't go flaming and attacking me for writing something you disagree with. This is what is in my head and I write dark because its cathartic for me. The following scene maybe disturbing to some readers. Please consider this before reading on. _

_Byte: Drug heightens pleasure centers of the cortex and is injectable. Highly addictive and dangerous_

_RAM: Disc placed on glossa, potent aphrodisiac. Addictive_

****

A Dish Best Served - Part 2 by Optimus Bob

*Flashback*

_"Where have you been?" Oilslick didn't even look at Prowl when he entered the room. _

_"Fixing the deal, like you asked me to." The slim 'bot poured himself some energon, his back to Oilslick. _

_"Why is it then that my client called me personally to confirm, after you had left him?"_

_Prowl turned to face him and shrugged. "Courtesy?"_

_Oilslick's optics narrowed as Prowl turned and walked away from him. "So, why was that over two cycles ago?"_

_Prowl glanced over his shoulder. "I was busy."_

_"You were... busy?" Oilslick stood and took a few steps towards the now seated mech. "Doing?"_

_A smug smirk settled on Prowl's faceplates. "Oh just someone... nobody important." He sipped the energon from his cube, picking up a datapad. _

_The cheek of that insolent Autobot. Oilslick fumed silently. In seconds he'd cleared the distance between them and smacked the cube out of Prowl's hand. It landed with a loud clatter sending its contents spilling across the floor. Hauling Prowl up by his wrist Oilslick seethed. "Do you deliberately try my patience?" _

_Prowl sneered in his face, he'd lived with Oilslick long enough to predict his moods and sometimes went out of his way to make a point to the older mech that he was nobody's property and would interface with who he damn well pleased. RAM gave him this new found confidence, Oilslick always provided the drug when he needed Prowl to do a job or fix a deal for him and Prowl had found that simply finishing the job was no longer enough to satisfy the cravings and urges that the drug awakened in him. He wanted; no he needed more and sought it out when ever he could. _

_Oilslick always got angry about it. He was possessive, controlling and paranoid. Prowl understood this, he was always discreet; he wasn't out to sabotage Oilslick's business, not when he provided everything Prowl currently desired. _

_Prowl yelled sharply when Oilslick's hand backhanded across his jaw. Staring at him with wide, surprised optics, Prowl simply stood and watched the fist approaching his helm. The force jarred his audio and optics and sent him skating across the floor. _

_This was different. _

_He spat out energon that seeped from ruptured energon lines in his face and glared at the approaching mech. "What the frag was that for!?"_

_"You disgust me, parading yourself about like you do, like a pleasurebot." _

_"I do not..!"_

_Oilslick clenched his fist once more and struck Prowl's face hard. "DON'T!! Dare argue with me. I know what you've been doing!"_

_Prowl gasped through the white stars of pain dotting his vision. "I am a free... free mech..."_

_Oilslick pulled him closer. "You are nothing but a worthless whore." He held up a disc of RAM and waved in front of Prowl's optics. "Maybe I should withhold this?" He leered down at the bruised and bleeding Autobot. "No... maybe I'll withhold this." He swapped the disc for a vial of blue liquid. Prowl's optics dimmed at the Byte in Oilslick's fingers._

_"You wouldn't" He whispered. _

_"Wouldn't I?" Oilslick growled. "Let me make one thing perfectly clear to you Prowl. You belong to me and I can do whatever I want while you live under my roof."_

_"Maybe I don't want to live under your roof anymore!" Prowl hollered back, his defiance fueled by his fear. Fear that his only escape from the sordid nightmare he was trapped in would be taken away. _

_Oilslick grabbed the back of Prowl's neck and half dragged, half lifted the smaller mech to the front door and thrust him outside. Prowl hissed and cried out as he was thrown to the wet floor. Acid rain poured from the sky, dark murderous clouds raced overhead. A storm was coming in fast. Prowl winced as the acid hissed through his armour. _

_"YOU THINK YOU CAN DO BETTER?!" Oilslick roared over the storm. "Go ahead... get out of my sight!" He hissed. _

_Prowl cowered on the ground, the acid seeping into his injured face. "Please... Oilslick..." He whispered, shame and self-loathing shredding any dignity he had left._

_Oilslick snarled and grabbed Prowl's arm. "And why can't you leave?"_

_"I--I have no where else to go..." Prowl hung his head. _

_Smirking in victory Oilslick ran a finger down Prowl's face. "That's right." Dragging the mech inside he flung the pitiful 'bot to the floor and mounted his frame. "You will learn once and for all your place in MY house Prowl." He snarled, his fingers ripping into Prowl's interface panel tearing it from his frame. _

_Hollering Prowl scrabbled at Oilslick's armour desperately trying to find purchase to shove him away. He had had enough of Oilslick taking what he wanted, controlling his entire life, using him. Byte was his only reprieve from the shame and anger. It sent him into a realm of blissful waking pleasure he'd never experienced before. If it wasn't for that one crutch Prowl knew he would have fled Oilslick's clutches but as time had worn on and Prowl found himself sucked deeper into Oilslick's world, it had become too late for him to simply flee. Too many mechs, business partners of Oilslick knew his face, knew him and shared a berth with him. All in the name of furthering Oilslick's business. Prowl had been too young and foolish to say no to the charming, suave mech and once he'd seen Oilslick's true colours he was in too deep to get himself out. _

_"NO!!" He shrieked as Oilslick's long fingers penetrated his valve just like countless times before. "Not this... please." He stared up into Oilslick's wild optics. _

_The older mech snarled and tore his optics away from Prowl's desperate anguish. "This is your lesson Prowl. You. Are. Mine."_

_"I know, I'm sorry... I'll do anything you ask just please don't do this... don't do this to me."_

_Oilslick's lip components stretched and spread into an ominous grin. "Yes you will, you'll do everything I ask. Open your mouth." _

_Prowl's optics widened and his mouth clamped shut as Oilslick lifted the disc of RAM to his lips. He shook his head, his last stand of defiance. Oilslick cried out in frustration and slapped Prowl's face hard before grabbing him roughly and forcing his mouth open. Slipping the disc onto Prowl's glossa he jammed it shut forcing Prowl to swallow. The black and gold mech thrashed under his weight before the drug took effect. _

_Oilslick felt Prowl's spike push against him, lubricant oozing from the head. Releasing his own spike, he hissed in pleasure, his fingers coaxing fluid from the slit. He smeared his lubricant along Prowl's cheek and the 'bot arched into him with want. The aphrodisiac was wreaking havoc with Prowl's systems; with that dose, topping off the earlier dose of RAM; Prowl would not be able to control his urges for interfacing. _

_Prowl whimpered as Oilslick's hand closed around his throat. _

_"You want me?" Oilslick purred._

_Prowl shook his head, frantically trying to suppress the growing heat and arousal cycling through his circuitry. No! He didn't want him, he wanted none of this. He wanted to run, never come back, start a new life free of Oilslick. A choked sob escaped Prowl's vocaliser as he heard his own voice whispering yes. _

_"What was that?" Oilslick grinned. "I couldn't quite hear you."_

_"YES!... I want it... please..." _

_Oilslick snarled with barely restrained arousal and positioned himself over Prowl, taking one last look at the slender 'bot, he gasped sharply as his spike stabbed into Prowl's valve, pushing all the way in to the hilt of his interface components. Prowl howled beneath him as he was filled suddenly and roughly. His valve struggled to stretch in time to accommodate the relentless thrusting of Oilslick's spike._

_Prowl overloaded quickly and suddenly, his whole frame arching off the floor as spasms racked his body. Oilslick grunted into Prowl's shoulder feeling transfluid bursting from his throbbing spike in a rush of hot, tingling release. He shuddered and locked, pleasure bleeding into every sensor node. Primus fraggin' the young 'bot was just too damn addictive to give up. _

_Oilslick lifted himself up and yanked his spike from the quivering valve in one harsh movement. Cleaning himself and replacing his interface cover, he cast a look of disdain at the 'bot lying on his floor, curling in on himself as if he'd been kicked. _

_"Gaahh..." Oilslick scoffed and placed the vial of Byte into Prowl's shaking palm. Lifting Prowl's chin with a single finger he smirked. "You're pathetic you know that?"_

_Prowl averted his optics._

_"Remember to whom you belong to Prowl." Oilslick stroked Prowl's helm. "Pleasing me will reap benefits." He closed Prowl's hand around the vial of Byte and chuckled darkly. "Now get out of my sight. You've wasted enough of my time. You have what you want." _

_Oilslick stood and left Prowl on the floor to clean up his own mess. He never gave the mech enough Byte to off line him, just enough to keep him wanting, keep him hooked. Oilslick hummed to himself, returning to his data pads filled with accounting details. He knew Prowl would take the drug, just as he always did. He was an Autobot, he was weak. Oilslick glanced up to see the door to Prowl's room shut. He huffed, it wasn't like he forced him to take Byte, but he never discouraged it either. Prowl had made his choices and Oilslick simply felt it his duty to remind the impudent young mech of what those choices entailed._

_Prowl belonged to him, by choice and by contract and he would never let him forget it._

*End Flashback*

Lockdown could only stare in shocked, deathly silence as Oilslick re-told the key points of the nature of his and Prowl's twisted relationship. A white-hot fury bubbled up in his spark. To take such advantage of a young 'bot, adult or no, it was depraved and Lockdown had heard enough, his rage screamed inside him and all it could see was Oilslick's face.

"Prowl made his choices and he belongs to me. He owes me more than your small cortex can comprehend. He. Is. Mine."

"S'what you think." Lockdown's deep voice rasped with venom and Oilslick's optics widened as the slightly larger green mech sneered at him before drawing back sharply.

Oilslick cried out as a rush of white faceplates followed by white-hot agony pierced his processor. His nose shattered as it impacted the top of Lockdown's helm. His arms flew out to stabilize himself as he staggered backwards, his optics spiraling in and out as he tried to focus.

Lockdown wiped away the dribble of energon seeping down the middle of his face because of his head butt; he snatched the needle from his neck and cast it aside. His chest rattled with a primal roar and he launched himself at the dazed mech sending both of them crashing through the window onto the streets of Kaon.

****

Prowl was feeling, finally pleasantly relaxed. Jazz and Optimus had done wonders lightening his mood. Optimus was still chuckling from Jazz's last joke. Prowl could feel the now high grade working its way through his systems. Optimus was obviously tipsy and sidled up to Prowl in a smooth motion when Jazz stepped up to get the next round.

"I always... admired you... you know that right?" Optimus's words weren't yet slurred but Prowl could tell he was close to overcharged.

"There's no need." He replied softly, ducking away from Optimus's warm smile. He felt the heat of a blush rushing to his faceplates.

Optimus drew closer. "No, there's every need Prowl... I have a lot of respect for you and to think I...I nearly lost you without... saying how I..."

Prowl flinched and met Optimus's gaze. "Please don't say anything more... I just do--mmmppff." Prowl's optics snapped wide open as Optimus's mouth pressed without warning against his own. The larger mech's hand cupped the back of his helm drawing him closer.

It felt.... good.

Prowl's processor raced, he couldn't, didn't want this did he? Still stunned Prowl caught sight of Jazz over Optimus's shoulder. The white ninja stood at the bar staring straight back at them. A flash of hurt, followed by something else Prowl didn't recognize crossed Jazz's face. His visor dimmed and he turned back to the bar.

Prowl pushed Optimus away. Breaking the kiss with a gasp. "Optimus I..."

"I like you Prowl." Optimus interrupted him. "I more than like you... I...don't know what I feel but I know I can't lose you again." He clutched Prowl's arm, his optics studying Prowl's face intently for a sign, an inclination that his feelings were returned. His spark fluttered when Prowl looked away and shook his head.

At that moment, the doors to The Inamorato burst open and a mech hollered into the bar. "There's a major brawl in the street! Someone call the Guard!!"

With that he was gone, followed by a flurry of activity as curiosity got the better of most of the mechs and femmes in the vicinity. Prowl and Optimus met Jazz's questioning shrug across the room and all three raced out to see if they could help break up the fight and restore a bit of order.

A large crowd had formed and the sound of scraping metal on metal could be heard whining in protest as two mechs pounded into each other violently while the eager audience encouraged them noisily.

"My money's on the big spikey one." One overcharged mech called out to his friend.

Prowl frowned and with Optimus and Jazz pushed his way through the crowd. His two companions rushed forward to break up the fight. Prowl stopped dead in his tracks. His optics stared at Lockdown who landed a vicious uppercut into Oilslick's jaw, slamming him into the ground with jarring force.

"Break it up." Jazz shouted getting between Lockdown and Oilslick, while Optimus pulled Lockdown back.

"What are you thinking Lockdown?!"

"None o' yer fraggin' business." He twisted sharply out of Optimus's grasp, his chest heaving in exertion, energon splattered over his green armour, which was now covered with dents and scratches. He stopped and stared as his optics met the shocked, mortified optics of Prowl.

His spark jumped at the sight of the black and gold ninja. "Prowl? I..." He took a step towards the ninjabot, his hand twitching to reach out to him.

Prowl took a step back, his face twisting into anger. He shook his helm. "How could you...?" He sneered in disgust, turned on his heel and shoved his way through the crowd, transforming and accelerating away as soon as he was clear.

Lockdown felt a tug pulling him back as he made to chase after him. He snarled at Optimus who met his glare with equal ire.

"Haven't you done enough?" Optimus pulled him back harder. "Stay away from Prowl."

Lockdown stared open-mouthed at the un-spoken threat in the Autobot's words. Optimus quickly transformed and raced after his friend leaving Lockdown to the Elite Guard that had shown up to take control of the situation.

He snarled. No Autobot threatened him. He found himself stopped once more, this time by the slight form of Jazz. "Let it go mech." The white ninja spoke softly, sympathetically and headed off after Optimus.

No, he wasn't going to just let it go. Lockdown clenched his fists. Prowl needed to understand why, he needed to tell him, before he lost his chance.

****

Prowl placed the datapad on Arcee's desk, the bar was still empty of customers due to the brawl. Turning he gasped to see Optimus watching him with worry in his optics.

"You don't need to tell me anything." Optimus cast him a wane smile. "What can I do to help?"

Prowl stared at the floor for a moment. Optimus waited patiently for him to respond. Taking an uncertain step forward, Prowl looked up at his friend. "I need to get away. Far away. Just for a while."

Optimus's smile widened. "I hear Sari has been asking after you."

Prowl's lips curved into a soft smile. "Perfect."

Optimus gave him a small nod and taking hold of his hand, he led him out the door. They slipped out just before the rush of customers once again filled the bar. Their exit watched only by a pair of blue optics hidden behind a dim visor.

****

"Too late mech." Jazz stated softly from his booth at Lockdown who had marched into The Inamorato and headed straight for Arcee's office.

"I know he's here."

Jazz shrugged and took another mouthful of high grade.

"Who?" Arcee frowned up at the blustering mech.

"Fraggin' Prowl."

Arcee's optics widened. "Oh." She dropped her gaze and picked up a datapad. "I think you better read this sweet."

Jazz listened as a heavy silence fell in the office before Lockdown could be heard bellowing loudly.

"He can't do this!"

"I'm afraid he has and his point is perfectly valid. He is no longer contract bound as you can now pay off your own debt." The femme touched Lockdown's arm gently. "I'm sorry darlin' I can't stop him."

Lockdown left the office slowly still clutching the datapad.

"Quit huh?" Jazz asked, leaning back into his chair.

Lockdown slid into the seat opposite and shook his head. "I thought I'd have a chance to explain... somethin'. I don't know." He slapped the datapad on the table with a snarl. "The slagger thinks he can just run and his problems will stop chasin' him? Primus that kid has some glitches in his processor."

Jazz chortled into his drink.

Lockdown shot him a dark glare. "I don't see what's so Primus damned funny 'bout this."

"Cool it mech. If I didn't know better I'd say you got a soft spark for him." He pushed another cube of high grade toward the disheartened mech.

Lockdown took the cube and downed its contents in one gulp. "What's it to ya?"

Jazz smirked. "I know where he's gone but ya need to cool off before I can let ya go gallivantin' after him. Prowl's a complicated mech, ya gotta give him time."

Frowning Lockdown stared at the smirking ninja. "Why the slag would ya tell me this? Why help me?"

Jazz stood. "Prowl's my friend." He turned and started towards the bar. "Besides I got invested interests in the company he's currently keepin'" He shot Lockdown a wink. "Another round?" His smirk widened. "On me."

****

Lockdown groaned his processor ached. "Primus what transport flight hit me last night?" He pushed himself up. Jazz was sprawled across the other side of the booth and the bar was empty. Morning light seeped through the small windows. He vaguely remembered getting ridiculously overcharged with the white ninja. Primus that 'bot could hold down his high grade.

Gripping his head he tried to stand only to fall back onto the cushioned surface as a dizzy spell washed over him. He kicked Jazz's leg prompting the other mech to sit up sharply, sending empty cubes clattering to the floor.

"I'm up, I'm up." Jazz mumbled rubbing his face tiredly. "How much we drink?"

"Enough." Came the tart feminine reply.

Both mechs looked up at Arcee standing over them, hands on her hips a scowl on her faceplates.

"We'll clean up, we swear." Jazz grinned.

Arcee dropped her helm and sighed. Lockdown frowned as she met their optics once more. "Something's happened."

The worry in her voice sobered both mechs up instantly.

"Ratchet contacted me earlier this morning. He had a message from Sari on Earth." Her voice trembled and she covered her mouth as her optics dimmed and glazed over.

"Hey what is it?" Jazz was up by her side in an instant.

Arcee took a deep shaky intake. "Optimus's late transport arrived last night through the space bridge. Bulkhead and Bumblebee found him. Ratchet's there now."

Lockdown stood. "What happened?"

She looked between them. "He was attacked, he'd been injected with something, some kind of drug, which sent him into stasis lock, almost killed him."

"Who?" Jazz insisted.

"Optimus."

Jazz's frown deepened. "Prowl was with him..."

Arcee shook her head. "The transport had signs of a struggle… there was energon everywhere."

"Where's Prowl?" Lockdown hissed.

"Optimus, when he came round briefly said he'd been taken. He's been hurt."

"Where is he now?" Jazz asked softly.

"He's gone! He's missing, kidnapped, no one knows why or by who and Optimus is in stasis. Oh Jazz what if he's...?" Sobs racked her slight frame as Jazz wrapped his arms around her tightly.

The light blue visor met the bright red optics of Lockdown, worry etched onto both their faces, fear building in their sparks as the same thought crossed both of their processors.

****


	30. Twist of Fate

_A/N: Starscream...squee._

_I make a lot of references to "A Time For Trust" so if you haven't read that fic, you may feel a bit lost. In short, following the events of TFA Season 3, Blackarachnia resurrected Starscream using an All Spark fragment but also merged him with the mind of a human scientist. She wanted to implant Starscream with broad understanding of organic chemistry so he could combine it with his age-old Cybertronian enginerring knowledge and hopefully be able to invent her cure._

_As fate would have it, Starscream instead convinced her she's better off in her techno-organic form, saying it was more powerful and beautiful than Elita One. He still managed to invent a cure for her, despite the fact they were servos-deep in a massive Quintesson threat, and that totally swept her off her stillettos. Naturally, being a sucker for the noble types (yes, Starscream was actually quite noble in my story) she fell HARD for him.  
_

_The real question is, did she fall for the real Starscream or for the human-influenced Starscream?_

_Be sure to check out our DevArt page as I just added an ADORABLE pic that Optimus Bob made me for my b-day last month. ^.^_

_Disclaimer: Transformers are property of Hasbro and I do not make money from pairing them up in peculiar ways.  
_

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**Twist of Fate** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

"A kink shop!?" You've _got_ to be joking."

Blackarachnia spun around to face the source of the infiltrating and shockingly familiar voice. She was just about to close early for the night after a slow day and wasn't expecting any more customers, let alone any visitors.

The cloaked figure in her doorway stepped into the shop with an unmistakable swagger. His face was indistinguishable under the shadow of his hood but the disguise could not hide the perky wings that graced his back and sported a pair of dulled red stripes and faded Decepticon symbols.

"I leave you alone for a few months and you open a smut store?" came the teasing, nasally voice again.

"Starscream!" she gasped, her inventory tablet slipping from her claws then tumbling to the floor. Her next action could only be described as a violent glomping, her rushing force and wrapping limbs knocking the unsuspecting seeker onto the floor.

"Primus woman!" he hollered as he crashed onto his back, the spider falling with him and hugging his neck enough force to pop his head off. He figured she'd be happy to see him, but this seemed a bit extreme. She pushed up to straddle his waist, her mouth gaping in awe as she beheld his half-amused, half-irritated smirk.

"Is it really you?" she yanked his hood off then ran her claws over his cheek and helmet, her gape softening to a joyfully saddened smile.

Starscream, attempting to recover from the assault, let out a couple huffs but then relaxed when he saw the joy and relief in her face and returned her smile with the sincerest one he could manage, which was really just a slight variation of his classic smirk. He was genuinely happy to be reunited with her. It felt like an eternity since he last shared the company of someone he could trust, especially someone who was at least partially sane. Her shocked but adoring gaze was enough to put his weary spark at ease and just bask in the promise of a relaxing evening garnished with a well-deserved pampering.

This moment of ease was quickly chased away however as a pair of angry, purple fists pounded down on his chest.

"Why didn't you contact me sooner!?" she shouted. "Do you have any idea how…" another pound to his chest, "worried I've been? Would it have killed you to at least open a comm call?"

He snatched her by the wrists before she landed another blow, holding her arms stiffly between the two of them. "It just might have killed me!" he defended, meeting her adamant glare. "I've got bounty hunters stalking me at every turn, amateur ones luckily, but no doubt they're tapped into my comm frequency."

He released her hands then slid out from under her, rising to his feet and flinging off the dusty poncho as if it just insulted him. He located the one, full-length mirror in the shop and stood before it, gazing at his reflection with disapproval.

Blackarachnia remained on the floor, her disbelieving gaze fixed on his every move. She analyzed each and every dent and scuff on his body particularly the shoddy patch job on his cockpit. It was filled in with shards of multicolored glass, melted together to just barely fit the proper dimensions of the dome. His right-side wing was warped, the Decepticon symbol hardly recognizable and his hand was gnarled, as if it never properly healed from a serious mangling. The fingertips on it were still bared and the raw, exposed circuitry appeared callused and hardened, the circuits showing no traces of electrical current. She ran her claws over her own altered fingertips, the half-stellar cycle memory resurfacing with a gouge to her cortex.

"What happened, Starscream?" she asked sympathetically. "Why does nearly all of Cybertron hold a grudge against you when you risked spark and servo to save her?"

"Take a wild guess," he muttered bitterly, focusing on the reflection of his scarred wing. What he wouldn't give for some proper body work, not that…holistic scrap he had been subjected to for the last several months.

"Megatron," she growled, rising to her feet and approaching the scarred seeker with a pained expression. She wrapped her arms around him and leaned her head against his shoulder, her chest heaving dramatically as she relived her infuriating past encounter with their brute of a leader.

Her bitterness toward Megatron was only a fraction of what Starscream felt, but he found comfort in their shared grudge and wrapped his arm tightly across her back. "That damnable fool beat the living scrap out of me then left me for dead in the deserts outside of Kaon." He felt the spider tense in his hold, which only told him that that imbecile posing as a respectable faction leader never even bothered to tell the other Decepticons of their run-in aboard the Quintesson ship.

"I knew it," she hissed, her claws balling into fists against his back. "He said you fled with the head Quintesson…but I didn't believe that for an instant."

Starscream's optics illuminated hotly. "He…" his voice started low but quickly escalated into its signature shriek "dared make me out to be a traitor!? After everything I went through to save this ungrateful planet!" The raging jet tore away from the femme and banged his fists down on the checkout counter. "He not only steals my thunder but pins me for treachery! No wonder I can't even ventilate in this city without fear of being lynched!"

Blackarachnia stiffened up at his words, glancing with paranoia to her shop windows. She hustled to the door and locked it then turned off the neon-lit sign. She quickly made her way back to the seething jet's side and slid her hands over his arm, lightly tugging him.

"You should go into the back room," she glanced toward the window again, "keep out of sight of the public."

"I wouldn't have to hide like a coward if that pathetic wash-up had enough honor to come clean with the truth!" Starscream didn't budge from his stance. He was too wrapped up in a flurry of spiteful sparkache to even worry about his exposed state. His talons left gouges on her counter as he thought back to his face-off with Megatron; the unmistakable regret in his leader's voice once he had realized he was wrong. He could still hear his name being called out by those gravelly vocals, a cry that couldn't hide the tyrant's guilt as he stood uselessly in that missile bay.

Starscream was almost willing to look past the fact the Megatron hadn't come for him after the Quintesson threat blew over, simply in the off chance that the predacons found him first, but to all out abandon him and then blatantly lie about his allegiance…that was intolerable.

"Starscream, please," the femme urged him, tugging harder on his arm. He finally allowed her to guide his rigid chassis to the back of the shop and into her private room, his anger curbing slightly once we was immersed into the rich, calming atmosphere of her plush and dimly-lit berthroom. It instantly reminded him of the room she claimed for herself in their base on Dinobot Island and he found himself almost saddened by the nostalgia of it. Starscream enjoyed their experiences together on Earth, despite the oddities of being resurrected with an organic counterpart. He was strangely content during that brief but productive time, fully immersed in scientific study, so much he couldn't even recharge properly. He made the most pivotal discovery in all of Cybertronian history, a discovery that would have earned the Decepticons their rightful place on Cybertron had the master of impulsive ignorance not landed them directly into an apocalyptic threat—yet another royal frag-up by the great and mighty Megatron.

"Sit down Starscream." The femme's voice was warm and soothing. "Relax. Let me clean you up." She guided him to the satin layered berth, pressing him to sit down then turned away to collect various cosmetic supplies.

The troubled jet followed her advice, venting a few puffs of heated air then easing down to lay on his side upon the shimmering black fabric. He attempted to quell the aggravating thoughts of Megatron by focusing on his surroundings, taking them in thoughtfully and becoming instantly captivated by the femme's choice of décor.

There was a collection of Earthly vegetation growing out of colorful pottery, small burning sticks that left a pleasant aroma plus layers of deep-colored fabrics draping from the ceiling accompanied by her sparkling garlands of webbing; not the typical choice of interior design one would expect from a being who made an obsession out of loathing everything of the organic type. Had his implanted love of organics truly rubbed off on her that much? He never doubted the validity of his arguments against inventing her cure, but he had never expected her to agree with him so whole-heartedly.

He also never expected her to develop such…strong feelings for him, but then again—despite her bizarre and unfortunate history—she was still a femme…and Starscream has always been quite popular with the femmes. This femme was by far his favorite though, a major reason being that her processor housed the single most important piece of information he ever stumbled onto.

She sat at the edge of the berth then leaned over his chest, running a hot, wetted cloth over his deformed wing and pressing her lips to his forehead with the sweetest of kisses. He dimmed his optics, unable to hold back a sigh at her artful method of licking his wounds. He could just barely make out her tender smile through the haze of euphoric comfort. She was making it very hard for him to focus on his priorities. Information retrieval aside, he should also be plotting his revenge against Megatron, figuring out how he's going to clear his name with the Autobots, learning the who's and whys of each bounty on his head…not digging himself deeper into an ultimately doomed romance.

"I have so much I want to ask you," she purred, gliding the cloth over his shoulder plating then across his collar, leaving a wake of glistening cherry-red. "But I'm afraid if I pry too much, I might wake up from this dream."

"Then let me do the asking," he offered in a near whisper, rolling over on his back to alloy her full access to his other wing. Dear Primus did she know how to capture him in her web. It took all his concentration not to get lost in her sensual touch. Why did someone so skilled with her hands make a business out of selling interfacing accessories? Why not open a massage school and teach Cybertron's sexually challenged how to get by without the need for silly, synthetic toys. Although he had to admit, some of the larger artificial spikes did catch his optic.

But enough fanciful daydreaming, he needed to focus on his _main_ reason for being here. He decided, somewhat apprehensively, to just cut to the chase.

"Do you still have the formula?" he asked coyly, slightly illuminating his optics.

She halted her actions and looked at him blankly, her smile fading away.

This reaction worried him. What did it mean? Did she lose it? Did she give it away?

"Did you ever have the formula?" he pressed. "Did the transfer actually work or did I send the most valuable piece of information EVER into oblivi—

"Yes!" she interrupted sternly. "I have the formula, but I don't understand a bit of it." She sat back on her knees, fixing on him with an unstable glare. "Is that why you're here?"

Insult. That was what that reaction was. Slag. He was sure how to approach this. It irritated him that she would put him in this position, forced to lead her on because she apparently valued this…whatever this was over the importance of the formula. If and when this fleeting affair comes to an end and she's left disappointed, she'll only have herself to blame. He could be a great many of things, this he knew for certain, but a lover was not one of them, and especially not the kind she needed. He wanted to tell her this, purely out of respect for one of the few he could call a friend but he feared her reaction would risk denying him of the formula.

And nothing was more important than that formula.

He attempted to stifle his worries in order to portray the illusion of contentedness. He gazed into her worried optics, his expression softening as he sat up on his elbows and placed a gentle hand to her knee. "The formula is only…" he offered in his sincerest of tones, "one of the reasons why I am here." He pulled her into him, cupping her cheek with his talons and planting a quick but sweet kiss on her apprehensive pout. She immediately went limp in his hold, her four optics staring longingly into his two.

"Oh Starscream," she whispered into his lips, "I missed you so much." She pressed into a deep kiss, easing her body on top of his. He moaned in response and wrapped his arms around her, laying his head and shoulders back onto the berth and pulling her with him. How did he keep finding himself in these situations? He should've seized his moment after the first kiss to ask for the formula, but no, he had to give in; unable to quit her because she felt so fragging good. Her flesh-coated touches were intoxicating, sending ripples of energy through his chassis that he never felt before until her. He knew there had to be a reasonable scientific explanation for this sensational phenomenon, but strangely enough, through all his acquired genius, he couldn't begin to figure it out in the moment. He blamed the processor-numbing feeling of her claws exploring his pelvic plating, searching for the key spot to trigger his interface panel.

"Well then," he exhaled through his rising heat levels, "I didn't expec—ACK!" The –fwip- of his panel took him by surprise. "Aren't we taking things a bit fast?" he teased, unsure of why'd he say such a thing and risk putting a stop to this. The job her fangs were doing on his neck cables was deliciously paralyzing. Her state had unpredictable shifted from fragile school-girl stricken with puppy love to some kind of beastly Amazonian succubus…and he was rather enjoying it.

She reared up from his neck, her lips parted to reveal her carnivorous grin. She pinned him to the berth with her wild stare alone then threw her leg over his hips, straightening her body to flauntingly stretch out the dynamic extremes of her curves.

He took a deep intake as he beheld her with a mix of arousal and fear then grunted abruptly as she engulfed his spike with her warm body. The sudden contact with her engorged nodes electrified his entire chassis and he pressed hard into her, craving more. Her transfluid spread quickly over his hardening length and with slow and controlled movements, she began grinding her luscious form into his body.

He tilted his head back, moaning through clenched teeth. He wasn't expecting this at all but oh holy Primus did it feel good. Months of rehabilitation with a hint of intimacy is enough to leave even the most reclusive of mechs maddened with want. He gripped her hips and pressed deep into her, matching her rhythm with smooth, graceful thrusts. He dimmed his optics, wanting nothing more than to focus on the feel of her.

He had been with femmes before, but only for sport or bragging rights or his favorite reason, to piss off Megatron, but none of them could compare to this. Beyond the unique warmth of organic flesh, this femme was a scientist; a respectable intellect wrapped in an aesthetically tantalizing body. He regretted not appreciating these aspects of her before. Had they put their tactical minds together immediately after she was rescued from Archa Seven and joined Megatron's crew aboard the Nemesis, they might have avoided countless stellar-cycles spent drifting around the galaxy in search of the All Spark—plus he could have shared the company of someone much more agreeable than their failure-of-a-commander during those long stretches of space travel.

Blackarachnia leaned over and devoured his tilted, tiny mouth, nipping his lips with her fangs and meeting his glossa with hers. He ran his hands up her sides then onto her shoulders, toying with base of her stingers. Her alien powers intrigued him. He wished he understood how they worked, specifically her debilitating venom. He was about to ask but was cut off when both her hands grasped the sides of his helm and her blue-tipped fingers lit up with a familiar green glow.

"What are you—AHHH!" he shrieked as his cortex was electrified. He anticipated an injection of the very substance he was gearing to inquire about, but instead his processor was flooded with a rush of information…specifically a desperately sought formula.

That tricky little minx. She could have at least warned him, but he wasn't about to complain.

The new, empowering information coupled with her writhing, wanton body was all too much to take in. Something had to give, so with a shrill shout he arched his back pushed deeper inside her clenching valve, his overload reaching her every greedy node.

She released his helm then dug her claws into his shoulders, her body bucking and her head thrown back. She ascended into orgasm, crying out in a raspy roar that would've frightened the ecstatic jet had it not impressed him.

She relaxed her posture and her vocalizations hitched into uneven breaths, almost sobs. "Oh Starscream," she collapsed upon him, burying her face into his neck and locking her limbs tightly over his body. "I can't begin to tell you how long I've wanted this."

Her endearment summoned a twinge of guilt in him. How does he respond to that that? Should he respond to that? He opened his mouth but nothing came out. He was at a loss for words, still recovering from the upload _and _overload. There were several, sincere thoughts he could share with her; truths about how he felt about her but for some reason, none of them could form into a coherent spoken language in his vocalizer. It was probably better that way. He hated to admit it, but eloquence somehow always eluded him in moments like these—the inevitable post-interfacing cuddling rituals.

"Did you get it?" she whispered, almost inaudibly, her body lightly twitching each time his spike throbbed with residual pulses against the lining of her drenched valve.

"Yes…thank you," he winced at the words, hoping she didn't take it the wrong way.

"You're welcome," she snapped playfully, shaking her head in amusement. "I see your tact still has something to be desired."

Starscream could only shrug with a guilty smile.

"So…" she lightly cackled, "are you going to build us another energon converter?"

"Not at this very moment, no." His sarcasm was flat but she giggled anyway, allowing him to be at ease with the intimacy. Perhaps this whole cuddling thing wasn't so bad if she kept talking about his scientific achievements. He traced a talon down her spine and her laughter bled into a sigh.

"Tell me how it works," she murmured with a genuine interest. "I have spent countless nights studying it, burying myself in the complexities of advanced organic chemistry but I could never even come close to understanding it."

Oh yes, he could definitely handle this. "Not your typical pillow talk," he teased, quirking an optic ridge and glancing down over his smirk. "But if you want me to attempt to explain in a post-overload haze what only years of practiced study can truly teach you, who am I to deny you your wishes? It's the least I can do to repay you for—"

"Just get on with it!" she interrupted with a laugh, jabbing him in the side. "I'll admit I like it when you talk geek." He saw her cheeks flush at the confession and couldn't suppress smiling about it.

"It's about fragging time someone appreciated my genius," he boasted lightheartedly before clearing his throat and gearing up for a splendidly brilliant delivery of finely tuned knowledge. He could see the image of the formula clearly displayed on his HUD but couldn't comprehend it as he hadn't accessed the information buried in his processor yet. He dimmed his optics and focused on the proper paths that led to his vast organic knowledge. That professor really was quite brilliant…for a human. The morality he could do without, especially since it almost got him blown to scrap and did indeed sentence him to the hell that has been the last half-stellar cycle, but then again, Cybertron could have ended up in the clutches of those wretched aliens' tentacles if it weren't for his insuppressible urge to be a hero.

Blackarachnia hummed lightly, brushed her thigh up his hip then scooting her hips to lay flush against him. She obviously wasn't bothered by the extended time it was taking for him to access his memory banks. Starscream wasn't too bothered either seeing how it had been a while since he needed to recall the information.

"Almost got it," he assured her…or was he assuring himself? "I didn't have a need to use my human influence while those lunatics patched me up."

"Lunatics?" she pondered. "You mean the predacons?"

"Err…yeah, sorry." Time for a bit of back peddling. "They weren't lunatics because they were predacons...they had just spent so much time roaming the desert, I think the dust was permanently embedded in their processors."

"So they found you in the desert?" the femme inquired with a fully piqued curiosity.

"Yeah…just…" Starscream's patience was wearing thin. It was tough enough to try to retrieve his alleged genius without her reminding him of an annoyingly incapacitating experience. "That's a whole other bedtime story. Do you want to hear about the formula or not?"

"I want to hear it all," she replied earnestly.

"One thing at a ti—" he cut himself off, washing over in dread as a single, vivid memory came crashing into his cortex. His body tensed and ventilation rate increased. Blackarachnia instantly cued into his shift of mood looked worriedly up at him.

"What's wrong?" she asked softly.

"It's…" his chest began heaving dramatically, his core temperature increasing rapidly. "It's…not…here!"

The spider sat up on her knees, fearful of the rage she felt building in his body. She watched with worry as his teeth clenched tight and his wings straightened stiffly beneath him. He jerked up to a seated position of the berth, his talons digging into the mattress.

"Starscream," she reached for him timidly but he slammed his interface panel shut then stormed to his feet. He began pacing in a bristling fury, his optics glowing menacingly bright.

"Starscream, what is it!?" she demanded, her curiosity and concern driving her to frustration.

The jet froze in his path and locked burning optics onto her.

"Tarantulus!" he spat with a harsh voice. "That fragger robbed me of the human's knowledge!"


	31. Starlight

A/N: This is based before the chronology of the last couple of chapters. Bonecrusher and Madam Strika decide to throw Lugnut a party for his success in the arena. Jazz drags Sunstreaker along with him. Bit of cracky fluff. Written for the March monthly challenge on LJ.

Sunstreaker TFA Concept is based on this picture: http : // www. seibertron. com/ energonpub/ sunstreaker- animated- style- t59413. php

(Take out the spaces)

Warnings: Mech x mech, kissing, flirting, fluffy, dirt drunken dancing.

****

Starlight - By: Optimus Bob

"Where the frag have you brought me Jazz?"

The white ninja laughed and grabbed his companion's arm. "Sunny my mech yer gonna' love it here!"

The golden coloured mech screwed his faceplates at the glowing pink neon sign. "Is this what I think it is?"

"Yeah but it's not all about that."

Sunstreaker snorted in contempt. "I'm not going in there!" He folded his arms and pouted.

Jazz just laughed at his petulant friend and lover. "Come on! I'll treat ya to a new chassis wax at Trixie's place if ya just come in fer a drink." He flashed the golden mech a winning smile.

Sunstreaker eyed Jazz with narrow suspicious optics. "Just one drink?"

"I swear it."

"And I can have the new scented wax?"

"Anythin' ya want." Jazz grinned, holding out his hand.

Sunstreaker huffed and slapped his palm in Jazz's, allowing the ninja's slender fingers to close around his own. He reluctantly followed Jazz through the guarded doors of the strange looking bar.

Inamorato. What kind of mech would name their bar Inamorato? It was just asking for all the wrong kinds of attention.

Jazz gave a friendly nod to Lugnut and Brawn on the doors. Sunstreaker was a little in awe of the large 'con, he'd seen him fight in the arena and had always wanted to meet him. The mech was an impressive fighter.

"If you keep staring I'll turn you into slag." Lugnut grumbled, not really threatening but enough to get Sunstreaker shifting inside.

He wasn't one for the pleasantries then. Sunstreaker reconsidered the autograph idea.

Jazz shook his head with a low chuckle. "War's done my mech, Lugnut's cool he just likes scarin' the newbies, chill alright."

"Whatever." Sunstreaker shrugged relinquishing the hand that was guiding him. He followed Jazz to the small bar. The white ninja seemed to know the bartender and was chatting animatedly with the black, gold mech. Sunstreaker's curiosity got the better of him and he took the opportunity to look around.

It was like no other bar he'd ever been in. Diaphanous curtains surrounded large comfy looking booths, splayed with cushions and deeply filled seats. There was a pole to one side running the full height of the room and around it was wrapped one damn fine looking femme. Sunstreaker pursed his lips components at the sight. She sure knew her way around that pole.

Tearing his gaze away from the alluring dance, he spotted the stairs and balcony arching around and over the bar. The place was filled with rooms. Sunstreaker knew exactly what sort of place Jazz had brought him to and did not want to investigate those rooms any further.

He quirked an optic ridge at the large bouncer, Lugnut. He kept peering in through the doorway; his five optics scanned the room before he withdrew again, in what looked like disappointment. Now who could he be looking for? Sunstreaker mused to himself.

Jazz caught his attention. "Ya gonna' stand there all day my mech or are ya gonna' join me fer some high grade?"

Sunstreaker rolled his optics at the two glasses of iridescent blue liquid in Jazz's hands. With a vague mocking disinterest, he joined Jazz at one of the comfy looking booths and couldn't help a contented groan as he sank into the pillows of the chair.

"Nice right?" Jazz's visor blinked in a wink and he handed over one of the tall glasses.

"Seriously Jazz I'm not an idiot, why have you brought me here?"

Jazz managed to look affronted at least. "Hey man this is just a nice place to kick back and chill ya dig?" He sipped his drink and sank back in his own chair. "'Sides if I just wanted to get down to facin' ya I would have done it back at my place when ya picked me up."

Sunstreaker chuckled at the inviting look Jazz was giving him and took a mouthful of the high grade. "Mmmm" He eyed the fluid. "This is good."

Jazz nodded in agreement. "Barkeep's the best."

Sunstreaker began to relax. He wasn't really one for socialising unless it was a large party where he could blend in, but he and Jazz had been doing this off and on for a while now. They'd hook up, take the other to the most unusual or exciting place they could find and then spend the rest of the night interfacing like wild petro-rabbits in heat. A lot of the time, they ended up skipping the destination and indulging in each other's circuits on the way. It was never a dull moment with Jazz that was for certain.

They weren't a bonded couple. Both Elite Guard, high risk of getting slagged or worse during the war and long periods where they wouldn't get to meet up at all meant they'd grown apart. They would always be good friends but nothing more, this was their bit of fun together. Trust between two mechs who'd seen similar things yet wanted different things out of life. Friends with benefits Jazz called it. Sunstreaker fought the urge to roll his optics at that one; the ninja had clearly been hanging around on that organic planet for too long.

****

Madam Strika was having a bad day. They were behind on their payments for the utilities of the club. They rarely struggled, the club made enough money usually to cover; rent bills and other unmentionable expenditures. These last few cycles had been quiet though. The arena had had an outbreak of rarely seen spores and it had caused a widespread panic that it was the start of an invasion by organics.

She gave an ungainly snort as she read the latest news feed. Damn media exciting the public. It really cut into her business. Mechs didn't want to go out when there was the possibility of organic infection - she didn't believe for a nano klik that there was an outbreak. When mechs were in a health panic, the last thing they wanted to do was to come and get fragged out of their processors, by high grade or other means available in their high-class establishment.

Still she had a job to attend to, customers to satisfy and no matter what happened they opened every solar cycle without fail. Today was also a rather special occasion, Inamorato was playing host to a surprise party. Lugnut had won fifty straight fights in the arena and Bonecrusher had come to her on the quiet to ask permission to use the club. She had readily agreed, Lugnut was far too modest about his fighting prowess and she knew if she asked him to, he would give up fighting to work full time as a bouncer. She rolled her optics, that mech was too dedicated sometimes for his own good.

She took a deep intake, it was hopefully going to be a busy event. Bonecrusher wanted to do the catering. Despite it being his idea he had insisted did NOT like parties. Strika had wisely decided not to wrap her processor around that one.

Her business partner Arcee had the day off so it was her place to see to the management of the place. Ensuring that the Starscream clones Sunstorm and Ramjet washed up was more than enough of a job for one person. Strika decided to give the task to Chromia; she could be persuasive when she wanted to be. Besides there was other more important things to be doing like invoicing and attracting in the clientele.

The latter was definitely more Arcee's line of work but Strika would do her best. She knew herself not to be one of the most attractive femmes in the Universe but if Lugnut's lust after her was anything to go by, then she had her own feminine wiles she could call upon if necessary. She stood and headed to the door.

Standing out in the quiet main room, Madam Strika frowned; they were going to need more incentive, the party was due to start in less than a cycle. She glanced over at the bar where Prowl was cleaning the counter idly. Something was wrong when even the ninjabot was bored. A devious little idea formed in Strika's cortex and she headed over to the bar to persuade (order) the black and gold mech to stand outside with small helpings of his best cocktail of high grade.

****

Lugnut growled ever so softly as he peered through the doorway once more, the fraggin' yellow Autobot was still staring at him; did he have a glitch or something? Maybe he was simple. Lugnut drew back outside and sighed. He knew Strika was in her office, it was only a matter of time until she came out and he would behold the loveliness that was her presence.

He loved his job. The two femme owners quite often came out to chat to them during quiet periods. He looked forward to Strika's visits the most the femme was simply intoxicating. Her look, her commanding presence, her tactless words spoken with that heavily accented voice. Lugnut sighed as he pictured her in his mind. Not even Megatron compared to the beauty that was Madam Strika.

He peered inside once more, ignoring the sniggers from his fellow bouncer. Finally, he was rewarded. There she was. He tracked her closely as she made her way across the room. Exquisite, simply exquisite. He frowned when she began to engage the Autobot bartender in conversation. He looked rather perturbed and shook his head vehemently at whatever Madam Strika was saying to him.

Lugnut let out a low snarl as Prowl slapped his towel onto the bar counter in irritation. Nobody acted that way with Madam Strika, his Strika. He was just about ready to give the ninjabot a piece of his mind when Madam Strika turned and caught him staring. He froze to the spot, his spark fluttering wildly in his chest. She gave him a short nod and turned back to the bar. Lugnut positively melted. Returning his attentions to the job at hand, he smirked. Her nod had sent pleasurable warmth washing over his frame.

Brawn quirked an orbital ridge at Lugnut. He was not in the least bit surprised to find a slag eating grin spread across the 'con's face plates. He took a quick glance inside. Yup just as he thought. He shook his head in amusement some infatuations were just unhealthy.

****

Sunstreaker watched the staff suddenly jump into action. Another mech popped his head out of the kitchen door and gave a curt nod to Madam Strika. He frowned as more customers started to file in, dribs and drabs at first but then bigger crowds all looking for a good time. Music began filtering through the bar and a number of tables were set up along the walls. The mech in the kitchen came out sporting a number of trays with treats and goodies freshly made on them. The ninja bartender that Jazz knew placed a collection of different coloured and different strength grades of refined energon upon another table. This all looked suspiciously like party preparations.

The golden mech shot a look across at Jazz who was watching everything with a wide grin on his face. "You knew about this then I take it?"

The white ninja laughed and gave him a sidelong look. "Ya know me mech I just want ya to have a good time and I know what ya like."

Sunstreaker shrugged and huffed. It was just like Jazz to put thought into their little meetings. He would make someone very happy one day if he ever decided to settle down. Sunstreaker mused on the thought, he knew he wasn't the settling down kind but Jazz well, he knew that this was probably one of the last times they would meet up in this sense. Jazz had the look about him that told him there was someone he had his optic on and Sunstreaker got great enjoyment out of teasing him about it. He returned his attentions to the growing crowds filling the room. He wondered who the party was for and what the occasion was and as if reading his thoughts, Lugnut entered looking a little flustered.

****

Jazz grinned as Lugnut entered, the mech looked totally confused. Brawn and Blackout appeared at the door both sporting wide smiles. This was a celebration, one which Lugnut had had no idea about, it was kind of sweet that Madam Strika had agreed to it considering how aloof she always seemed to be around the mech. Barricade stepped out from beside Blackout and gave Lugnut a little push into the room with a devious smirk.

Bonecrusher stood to oneside his arms folded, a scowl on his face as Madam Strika stepped into the center of the room.

"Lugnut, in recognition of your achievements in ze arena ve vanted to throw you a party." Her heavily accented voice carried through the room, silencing the murmuring chatter.

Lugnut stood, silently gobsmacked his optics fixed onto Madam Strika.

"For your fifty straight vins congratulations."

Jazz waited, all optics fell on Lugnut whose mouth was opening and closing in surprise, and then it happened. Madam Strika smiled proudly at the large mech and the room erupted in cheer. Applause and shouts of elation crescendoed until it rang in their audios. Lugnut shifted and grinned awkwardly his optics always returning to Madam Strika's face.

"I am not deserving of your praise." He mumbled shlyly.

Jazz knew instantly that his words were directed solely at the femme. He chuckled as the Madam scoffed and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Nonsense! Come you must have the first drink. They have been made specially for you." She led him to the table of drinks and the party got underway.

Sunstreaker shifted out of his seat to take the seat next to Jazz, leaning into his side he grinned. "You always have to surprise me don't you Jazz?"

The white mech turned slightly and smiled warmly. "I don't here ya complainin'"

Sunstreaker leaned closer and brushed his lip components against Jazz's. "It's early yet." He murmured before planting a quick kiss on Jazz's mouth. "Now I want to try that high grade and those goodies coming?"

Jazz chuckled and nipped Sunstreaker's retreating lip components. "Nah mech I'll save our seats, bring me back somethin' nice."

"What I'm not enough for you now?" Sunstreaker grinned over his shoulder as he weaved through the crowds with practised ease.

Jazz watched the golden mech and smirked to himself. He enjoyed their meetups, Sunstreaker had spent a long time in the Elite Guard as special ops, his missions took him to many worlds to track down and bring to justice wanted criminals, dead or alive. He hadn't been back in society for very long and Jazz knew a party was just the thing to cheer the mech up and help him relax. He glanced around the room. Prowl was busy serving drinks at the bar, Blackout and Brawn were standing just in the doorway chatting happily with guests. Barricade hovered near the door chatting with Onslaught and Vortex and Lugnut - Jazz couldn't help but face palm - he was as close to Madam Strika as he dared. She was busy making sure guests were happy and entertained and her staff were presentable and Lugnut was perched at the bar watching her with a starry look in his optics. Jazz shook his head in amusement, the mech was obsessed, it was almost a shame to see how easily Madam Strika brushed him off, she was either oblivious or was choosing to ignore his advances. It was captivating to watch, like a transport crash.

Every time Madam Strika stood close to Lugnut, he would devote complete attention on her, even if she was engaged with someone else, he would stand by her his hand tentively brushing his fingers down her arm, only to have them batted away gently. She never flinched, never got annoyed just seemed indifferent to his affections and then she would pat him on the shoulder in congratulations and continue about her business, leaving the mech to his multitude of fans.

Sunstreaker waved a glass of sweetened high grade in front of Jazz's optics, catching his attention once more. "What's got you so entertained?" Sunstreaker asked as he sidled in the large seat beside Jazz.

"Just look over there." Jazz pointed in the direction of the bar.

"Who am I looking at?"

"Madam Strika, just watch her and watch what happens when she nears Lugnut."

Sunstreaker quirked an orbital ridge not really seeing how Jazz could find people watching entertaining as far as he was concerned people were predictable, very little actually surprised him. Still he watched as Madam Strika circled the customers skillfully, making sure everyone was happy and had a drink or a goodie in their hands. Ok so that was a bit surprising to see. The infamous General Strika quite happily tending to overly charged and rambunctious mechs. Happy was probably too strong a term, the femme rarely wore a smile and remained quite curt with most people. She was a good hostess though, Sunstreaker had to give her that one. She moved nearer to the bar to direct her bartender to refill the drinks table, Sunstreaker's optics widened as Lugnut appeared by her side.

The mech was trying to get her attention by talking to her. More like talking at her, the femme only spared Lugnut the odd glance as he spoke and the occasional nod of acknowledgement. Any reaction Lugnut received seemed to make the large mech stall before continuing bestowing his attention on her, ignoring anyone around him baying for a minute of his time.

Sunstreaker snorted a laugh into his drink. "Well I never thought the arena champion would be so inept around a femme."

Jazz laughed. "Lugnut's not inept around any femme though, just Madam Strika."

"Seriously? What is he glitched?" Sunstreaker frowned as he watched Madam Strika ignore Lugnut when someone else demanded her attention. The mech looked almost sad. "She barely even looks at him, can't he see she's not interested?"

"I don't think it matters to him." Jazz replied, a wistful tone to his voice.

"Seems a little desperate to me. Mech shouldn't waste his time with someone who clearly doesn't want his time." Sunstreaker grunted in disdain as Lugnut was brushed off by the femme with a few quick words. He shook his head, noticing the faint red flush of the mech's faceplates at even that small drabble of attention.

"Aww I wouldn't judge Madam Strika so much, she's a busy femme. Lugnut just needs to get out more I think." Jazz sipped his drink feeling the pleasant haze of over charge washing over him. "Besides I remember you saying I was a waste of yer time once."

Sunstreaker screwed up his faceplates in protest. "That's not what I said."

"It so was mech! Don't ya remember?" Jazz laughed. "Ya used to tell me that if I didn't leave ya alone ya were going to switch sides."

"Humpf, I'm pretty sure I didn't." Sunstreaker shrugged. "That's besides the point, I mean just look at him, she looked at him just now and I swear the mech was about to melt into molten slag if that defect Barricade hadn't dragged him over to their table."

"Go easy on the mech. Love hurts." Jazz playfully swatted Sunstreaker's arm. "He's no worse than I was."

Snorting again Sunstreaker narrowed his optics at Jazz. "Yeah but you're a sexy piece of aft and can get away with that sort of slag."

Jazz's visor turned back to the party. "Don't know how ya figured that one out when ya didn't want to look at me." He let out a soft chuckle, enjoying Sunstreaker squirming in the seat.

"You damced."

"Huh?"

Sunstreaker huffed and felt heat rising across his faceplates. "You can dance, that's when I noticed the rest just kinda happened. But you don't see Lugnut dancing for Strika now do you?" He smirked at his lover. "Though I'd love a replay."

Jazz's visor darkened at the compliment and subsequent not so subtle request. "Ya wanna dance? Here? Now?"

Sunstreaker leaned closer, his free hand roaming over Jazz's white armour. "Aha."

Jazz beamed and downed his drink. Grabbing Sunstreaker's hand he tugged him to the middle of the floor and began moving in time with the music. Sunstreaker couldn't help but drink in the sight of the lithe ninjabot grinding seductively against him. He moved with him, wrapping his arm around his waist, keeping Jazz pressed close to his body as they lost all sense of their surroundings. Drowning in a mixture of high grade and music Sunstreaker succumbed to the urge to taste his lover, he mouthed over Jazz's throat, nipping along his jaw line, glossa lapping at sensitive cabling before denta bit down and teased them.

Jazz moaned and moved more erotically in time with the music, they didn't care who could see them all they could think about was getting under each other's plating. That was until a short burst of static sounded close to them followed by a tap on their shoulders.

"This is vhat ve have private rooms for." Strika raised her brow at the two drunk and horny mechs. "The one at the back is free, go on before I have to get Blackout to remove you." The corner of her mouth twitched with amusement as the golden mech lifted Jazz over his shoulder and sprinted out of the main room.

****

Madam Strika was glad that Jazz and his guest were having a good time, she glanced around the room. The crowds had lessened considerably, most mechs and femmes pairing off or heading home. Her staff were currently indisposed, only Prowl remained at the bar. The time had come to start clearing away. Most of the booths were occupied and quiet chatter melted into the soft music that filtered into the room.

She made sure the remaining guests had drinks and were content with their service, it was getting late. Most 'bots that were left would more than likely stay the night. Her optics glanced across the room at the sound of Lugnut's bellowing laugh. He was sat at Blackout's table, the bouncers having long since shut the doors and joined the party. Inwardly she smiled, it had been a good night, they had made quite the profit and everyone was still smiling. Well except for Prowl but then when did he ever smile. She silently thanked Primus that Lockdown hadn't shown up.

"You can go Prowl, thankyou for vorking tonight."

The ninja gave her a small smile and finished cleaning up. "It was my pleasure, I had fun." He left the bar and headed to the organic room.

Strika watched him go, knowing for a fact that he probably didn't have THAT much fun. Feeling suddenly quite exhausted, the femme took one last look over the room and slipped out. She wasn't really one for big social events and sometimes just needed to get away from people. She scaled the stairs to the roof and unlatched the solid door. Stepping out onto the flat surface she was bathed by the pink glow of the neon sign.

The night was cold and clear. Just the way she liked it. The black sky was a myriad of colours pricked with an immeasurable amount of stars. She gazed up at the sky and slowly felt the tension and fatigue drift away on the Kaon night air. She deepened her intakes and allowed herself a relaxed smile.

She heard the latch of the door behind her and her smile widened. Warm air caressed her audio as the large mech stood flush to her frame. His large arms wrapped around her and gave her a slight squeeze.

"I don't deserve you." Came the soft rumbling vocals.

Strika laughed and turned around to face her partner. "Sometimes you are a defect Lugnut." She cupped his face with one hand, the other pressed onto his chest. "Did you enjoy your party."

He nodded and smiled. "Thank you, it is the most anyone has ever done for me."

"It is everything you deserve."

"Would settle for just you."

"That... can be arranged." She pulled the tall mech down to her level with a smirk.

Their lip components met and their glossa danced with each other, exploring each other's oral plating. Lugnut tightened his embrace deepening the kiss and forgot the world around him as he kissed his beloved Strika beneath the starlight.

****


	32. Celebration

A/N This piece is more or less embedded in Optimus Bob's fic "Starlight" (see last chapter). We thought it would be crackier to do it that way. Plus, more Lugnut fic is always good, right?

Celebration, by antepathy

Barricade had a simple policy: go anywhere where there's free food. And a free party? Oh, he was there. And he'd polished Blackout for the occasion, so he also had to look forward to the way Blackout moved when detailed. All sleek and shiny. It killed him that this job made the copter so happy—Barricade kinda wanted to be the only thing that made Blackout happy. But at least he got to see Blackout happy, and get a few stolen kisses through the night. Okay he would probably initiate most of those—he just wanted everyone to know the Copter Was Off Limits.

He surveyed the crowd. Someone here would know something. That was the other reason he was keeping his optics glued to Blackout—to see who else was noticing him, to see who might be a little too surprised to see the return to health and sexiness.

Funny all these Autobots were here, considering that the big loser for Fight Fifty was one of theirs. Typical Autobots, Barricade snorted. All their propaganda claimed they didn't do this factionalism thing any more. Here was proof. Dancing on the grave of their fallen. Sure, mech wasn't dead, but he sure wasn't going to be pretty any time soon.

He just hoped they stayed behaved, so Blackout wouldn't have to get too rough with them. At least, unless he could watch.

He'd spotted the 'café outrage' bags in the employees' entrance, which meant his attention was sorely split. Perhaps it wouldn't be too much of a dereliction of duty to help himself. And…maybe snatch up some of those crispy treats for later. Frag, he loved those things. DESPITE the fact Bonecrusher was involved. And besides, a mech needed to be fully energized to do his best work. No use thinking on an empty tank. Empty tanks were for killing, and he wasn't feeling like doing that tonight.

He sidled over to the laden tables, jumpy lest Onslaught be around to criticize his manners again. Like me fine when I'm killing for you, he thought, sourly. But tonight, he would refuse to let Onslaught poison his night. There was a copter to ogle, and if he played it right, rotorsex. Well, MORE rotorsex. Detailing the rotors had led to more than a little rotorfondling. He had hopes for even more.

"You!" Bonecrusher snapped, as he approached.

Barricade twitched. "Me?"

"No, not you, YOU!" Bonecrusher's long arm extended in a pointing gesture that was almost shaking with emotion. "Step away from the fraggin' gravy boat."

Barricade turned. Oh. Brawl. Well, that explained it. Brawl couldn't figure out how to sit down without a manual. And he was holding the gravy boat above his mouth, preparing to pour the liquid straight down his throat. Ha! Even Barricade knew better than that!

Brawl froze, optics wide. He looked over at Bonecrusher, the gravy boat loose in his fingers.

"PUT IT DOWN BEFORE YOU SPILL IT!" Bonecrusher bellowed. "Do you know how slaggin' hard it is to make a rust roux?"

"Uhhhhh, no?" Brawl squeaked.

"Well then, could you do me the fraggin' courtesy of NOT SPILLING IT ON THE FLOOR?!" Bonecrusher was trembling with, well…Barricade would have to call it 'outrage.'

"Sorry," Brawl said, meekly. He placed the gravy boat carefully back on the table, backing away as if he were afraid it might explode. "It's really good," he said, like an apology. As if the food had made him do it. Well, Brawl was pretty suggestible. You never quite knew. It was possible.

"Of course it's good," Bonecrusher snapped. But on the plus side, he wasn't bellowing any more. Conversation, which had been blasted to silence by his outburst, slowly resumed.

"Did you make it? You're super good at cooking."

A normal mech might have preened at the naked praise. Not Bonecrusher. Not so much. "Of course I made it. And of course I'm good. And YOU are a slaggin' palateless culinary heathen."

"Probably," Brawl agreed. "I don't know what those big words mean, but you're the expert."

Bonecrusher gaped at him. Barricade could read his thoughts as clearly as is Bonecrusher had a LED display. 'This mech…is an _idiot_.' Even then, understatement. Brawl was good at what he was good at—blowing stuff up and breaking things with his head. His one saving grace was that he was entirely pliable. A perfect weapon: lethal, obvious, stubborn, and too dumb to ask any inconvenient questions.

"So, like," Brawl shuffled his feet, nervously. "What am I allowed to eat?"

"NOTHING!" Bonecrusher howled. "You are banned from eating. Ever again!"

"Uhhhh, Bonecrusher," Barricade offered, recoiling a step or two as the beetly red optics swung around to him. "Yeah. Can't really talk to Brawl like that."

"I'll talk to any miscreant who disgraces my cooking any slaggin' way I please."

"Yeah, but…he takes it kinda seriously."

Brawl was already quivering, his optics spilling over with lens lubricant. "B-but I'll DIE!" Barricade rolled his optics pointedly at Bonecrusher.

Bonecrusher jutted a frustrated lip at him, but relented. "Fine. You can eat. Maybe." He looked over the chafing dishes. "Here." He grabbed up a plate and tossed a serving of rust-rolls and fried energon sticks on it and thrust it, ungraciously, at Brawl. "You can have these."

Brawl took the plate with something like awe and reverence. Barricade breathed a silent sigh of relief that the crispy treats hadn't been offered. More for him. And the copter. He'd totally share. Maybe he could find some way to combine crispy treats and rotors. No, that sounded sticky and messy. Hrm. The night was young, something would come to him.

"Do you think you can manage to eat those without specific instructions?" Bonecrusher sneered. "Or am I going to have to stand over here and make sure you don't choke to death?"

"I can see," Barricade said, snatching for some of the energon sticks himself, "why the restaurant thing didn't really work out for you."

"Worked out fine." Bonecrusher huffed. "Not my fault mechs don't know how to appreciate energon that's cooked properly. War ruined every slaggin' palate on Cybertron. "

"Not mine," Barricade said around a mouthful of energon sticks. Frag, these were good, too. He'd have to hang around back after the party and get first dibs on leftovers. As a…close friend of an employee.

"You just have no manners," Bonecrusher said.

"Yeah well," he hastily covered his mouth while he was chewing, "can't have everything." Next to him, Brawl was shoving the food into his own stupid maw. Barricade stepped closer to block the view: Bonecrusher would probably implode from rage if he saw Brawl cramming roll and stick in his mouth at the same time. Some sort of haute cuisine sin. Whatever. Barricade was already going to the Pit to begin with.

"You're amazing!" Brawl burbled, crumbs flying from his mouth. "You're like the most amazing mech ever. Can I watch you cook sometimes?"

Barricade almost choked on his roll. No, that didn't sound creepy at all. And Barricade was smart enough to know that watching Bonecrusher cook was probably a bad idea. Bonecrusher would have… knives.

"No!" Bonecrusher snapped. "You would get your…Stupid Cooties all over everything."

"Stupid Cooties?" Barricade echoed.

"Would you like to be banned from eating too?" Bonecrusher snarled, optics narrow red lines.

"You could try," Barricade's optics glinted.

"I bet he'd help me if I asked." Bonecrusher looked pointedly at Brawl who was staring at the empty plate with an expression of ineffable (read: stupid) sadness. Bonecrusher plated another handful of the fries, this time drizzling them with gravy, and handed that to the little green tank. Brawl looked like he was about to prove you could explode from happiness. Bribery, plain and simple.

Bonecrusher was probably right. Barricade wouldn't put it beyond Brawl to kill for food. Slag, he didn't really put it past himself. A few of those crispy treats or maybe some of those noodles, and he'd be a one-mech assassination machine. He was simply smart enough not to let Bonecrusher know that.

And suddenly, Barricade had An Idea. Okay, not the usual 'Kinky Things to do with the Copter' idea or even a 'Fantasies About Killing Onslaught' idea. But the best Mischief Idea he'd had in a loooooooong time.

"Brawl," he turned to the tank. "I bet Bonecrusher could use some help moving stuff at the end of the party." This stuff looked unbreakable enough. Brawl's optics lit up with a stupid kind of hopefulness.

"Can I?" he said.

"Sure!" Barricade said, jovially. "Bonecrusher's just a bit shy when it comes to asking for help."

"Barricade," Bonecrusher muttered, "I am going to rip those stupid tires off your arms and grate them into coleslaw and make you eat it."

Well, that sounded…extreme. "No you wouldn't," Barricade bluffed. "That would gunk up your grater thingie."

"Thingie?! THINGIE?!?! It's a slaggin' BOX grater, you ignorant savage!"

"Right. Okay." Time to beat a hasty retreat. "Anyway, Brawl, he really needs help." And how. "See ya!" He snatched up the tray of crispy treats and zoomed into the crowd. Ha! Pilfer success! Behind him, he could hear Bonecrusher's strangled cry of rage. But he, devious little mech that he was, was counting on the fact that Bonecrusher would find it more important to guard the buffet en masse from other 'savages' than to rescue one measly tray of like…the most delicious thing ever.

**

Blackout was really glad his relationship wasn't like Lugnut's with Madam General Strika. And it was all because of Barricade, of course. He could totally see himself mooning after Barricade the way Lugnut did after Madam General Strika, but Barricade was way too nice to be that mean to him. Oh he knew that Strika liked Lugnut, and it was probably just being professional and stuff that she kept so distant from him tonight. Still, Blackout was extra glad when Barricade had suddenly appeared next to him, a full tray of crispy treats in his hands. He hadn't been able to resist bending in for a quick kiss. And then another one as the surprised blink of all four of Barricade's optics just hit him as the most adorable thing ever. Frag but Barricade was so hot.

And so thoughtful. Blackout loved these treats! "You are so awesome!"

"Yeah, I know," Barricade said, grinning. "Can you help me stash some of these for later?"

"But…they're kind of for the party?" Blackout winced at the impatient flicker in Barricade's optics. He must have said something stupid…again. "I'm sorry," he said, hanging his head.

Barricade muttered something about 'consciences with rotors'. "Of course," he said, a bit louder. "I was just thinking that if we grabbed just one or two now for ourselves, we'd at least get some too, right? I mean, no good if you pass out from hunger."

"Okay," Blackout said. That sounded reasonable. He needed to be at the top of his game if anything happened, you know, from the Autobots—who might be riled that their mech lost—and everyone else. And the pink-frosted treats really were yummy. He opened his compartment. "We can keep some here." He giggled as Barricade stowed a double handful of the treats in his storage. Barricade snapped the hatch shut with a deliberate tickle. "Mind if we stick around late?"

Barricade shook his head, optics rolling. Blackout knew what he was thinking—copter and his job. Still, Barricade was totally understanding about it. Which made him even more awesome. "Let me just," he said, sighing, "take these around to the others."

"Awww, that's super cool of you, Barricade," Blackout said.

"Yeah, yeah." Barricade's optics glinted in the way they did when he was scheming something. "Owe me for this, copter."

Blackout didn't quite follow that, but then again, Barricade was like…way smarter than he was and it was probably something he just wasn't smart enough to get. Besides, all the other times he'd 'owed' Barricade, he'd managed to pay it off in interfacing. Which was pretty awesome. He patted his storage, fingers lingering over where Barricade had tickled him, as the smaller mech wove through the crowd, offering the tray to various mechs.

Lugnut ambled over to him. "Did you know about this, Blackout?"

Blackout didn't know what to answer. So he went with the truth. Because honestly was always the best policy. "I just knew they called me for some overtime. Honest."

Lugnut grunted. "I am undeserving of this honor. I do not know why Strika thought this was necessary. I was merely doing my duty to uphold the honor of Kaon!"

"You deserve a prize for that," Blackout said, earnestly. "I get prizes from Barricade when I do good stuff, so, you should too." Well, maybe not from Barricade. He wanted to be the only mech getting THOSE kind of prizes.

"But I did not ask for a party. I would much rather have General Strika…to myself." Lugnut looked embarrassed and a little sad, his five optics drooping.

Blackout felt really bad. Lugnut was a cool mech, and he'd heard more than enough of Blackout gushing about Barricade. "You know what I found?" He waited until the optics focused on him. "I found that for stuff like this, where Barricade and I are like together but we can't really fool around? It kinda makes it really hot later." He blushed, his olive facial crests quivering with embarrassment. But it was true. Now, just watching Barricade swing gracefully through the crowd, he could feel his interface systems heat up.

"Really?" Lugnut looked surprised, his optics drifting back to Strika as she was patrolling the perimeter of the room. He watched as she paused to suggest to two Autobot dancers that they were dancing a bit too…suggestively that they might take one of the rooms. Even though they were Autobots, they respected her authority. She was commanding and beautiful.

"Sure. Barricade says it's simple strategy. Like cutting a supply line."

"Strategy," Lugnut echoed. "Yes." He stomped one foot. "I approve of this strategy." He faltered. "I just wish…she was a little less strategic about it."

"I think it's a grounder thing," Blackout added. "You know. Try to drive us airframes crazy. With their cute tires and all."

"Oh," Lugnut groaned. "Do not talk to me about her tires! Visions of beauty!"

"Sorry," Blackout said. "But I bet that's what it is. I bet she jumps you later." Blackout certainly knew his plans for later. But first, a good night at work. And he could feel the treats in his storage like tasty promises.

**

"This," Bonecrusher was expostulating wildly, his long arms knocking into the dangling pots in the kitchen, "is an absolute outrage. You cannot saddle me with this…MORON."

General Strika pursed her lips. "Bonecrusher. Ve haff vorked together long time, yes? Vhen I steer you wrong bevore?"

Bonecrusher sidestepped the point. "But…he's a moron!" Sticking to his guns. His stupid guns. "He'll break something!"

"He only breaks things you vant him to break. He is very goot about that if you giff him chance."

"I do not want to 'giff him chance'. This is all some evil plot by Barricade to ruin me!"

Strika tilted her head to consider. Meanwhile Brawl was doing his best to pack up the newly rinsed pans, wincing as his shoulder fairing clanked into one of the overhanging pots. "Iz pozzible. You know vhat I do vhen Barricade has plans?" Her optics glinted. "I beat him at his game. Iz goot for intellect."

Bonecrusher considered. "Would show the little pest, wouldn't it? Do you know he stole the whole tray of crispy treats?"

"Oh he came round vith them. He can be goot mech vhen he vants." When Blackout was watching. Strika was no fool.

Which was, Bonecrusher thought sourly, not particularly often.

"Besides, Brawl is goot vorker. You'll see. Is alvays useful to have zuch devotion." Her face split into a rare smile. "Speaking of vhich." She saw Lugnut, disconsolately moping across the back of the kitchen, behind where the others—including Barricade—were wiping down glassware. Yes, Strika thought, watching Barricade lean against Blackout, and the copter's arm wrap around the narrow shoulders in a quick embrace, and to brace him while the copter planted a kiss on his head, devotion is useful. But there was something even more than devotion, that was even more than simply useful.

A few more things to take care of, she thought. And then, finally, time for herself. And Lugnut. She winked him a signal to follow her as she reentered the main room. Keeping your soldiers happy in the aftermath of battle was vital to long term success. Just because some of her 'soldiers' were Autobots, and parolees didn't change that. A quick talk with Prowl—whose dedication and quiet competence had not gone unnoticed—and, she thought, she would have earned herself a breath of fresh air on the helipad.


	33. Impulse Control

A/N this was a request someone made for this series. Warnings: dubcon, angry sex.

_Impulse control_ by antepathy

Onslaught, Barricade had to admit, had that 'inscrutable' thing down. Of course, probably having a mask and a visor helped more than a little. And were probably cheating also but right now Barricade really wasn't in a position to call him out on it.

The position he was in was one he hated more than anything: admitting to failure. He'd been trying for decasolars now to track down Thundercracker again, get a fresh lead, figure who from the _Motherboard_ would have sold him out like that. Well, that last was more a matter of eliminating who wouldn't sell him out and then backtracking possible motives. Which, with that crew, was tedious and seemingly endless work. And thus far, entirely fruitless.

He rocked on his feet in his stiffest version of parade rest in front of Onslaught's desk, grinding inwardly at himself as Onslaught studied his report. He could swear at times that the optics behind the visor flicked up to him, but that might just have been his imagination.

The large mech sat back, studying Barricade boldly, wordlessly. Barricade froze his face. Onslaught would not push him into talking. Let the aft-denting happen, but Barricade wasn't going to be the one to hand him the hammer.

"You're displeased with these results," Onslaught said. Waited.

"Yes." One of those rare cases: saying he was pleased with his findings thus far was more disgusting than admitting the truth to Onslaught.

A long moment of silence.

"You're not giving me excuses."

"There aren't any." Barricade's tank seemed to twist.

Onslaught studied Barricade as he stood, fighting his own discomfort. He could feel it like a palpable thing, Barricade's frustration and disappointment. One of Barricade's few dangerous weaknesses: his inability to tolerate failure. It made him dogged in pursuit, ruthless; but if left too long without results it made Barricade dangerously violent. It could, Onslaught knew, ruin the smaller mech. And just when it seemed he had something worth preserving.

He could think of one solution at any rate. It would reset Barricade and…help Onslaught. He had been losing too much recharge himself, fantasizing about Moonracer. He needed to get that out of his own system.

"You," he said, carefully, deliberately, "are losing your edge." He watched the comment strike home: Barricade quivered, his talons bunching into prickly fists before he forced them flat. Closer to the edge than Onslaught had estimated. Harder, he thought, push harder. If Vortex were here, he'd snap Barricade in half a klik. Onslaught was slightly less skilled, but not incompetent. Push harder. "Time was, Barricade, I could count on you for results."

Barricade flinched, muttering under his breath. Closer to the edge, just a bit more, Onslaught thought.

"I'm sorry? I didn't quite catch that." Cliché, but a classic goad. Push him, break him, now, here, where you can keep it private, where you can keep it contained. Control the damage.

"I said," Barricade muttered, raising his optics to Onslaught's, "Slag yourself."

Onslaught snorted. "I imagine you'd rather do that yourself."

"Know better than to strike a superior office."

"What if I suspended that for the duration?"

"Of my employment?"

Onslaught chuckled. "Say…the next megacycle or so."

"Think you'll fool me with hypotheticals?"

Onslaught reached up, and jerked the command node from his chassis. He laid it on the desk in front of him, deliberately. "Not hypothetical."

Barricade was trembling from the conflicting emotions—Onslaught could practically read them, debating how likely a set-up this was, straining for the angle he was missing, and wrestling fiercely with his rage at all of Onslaught's cheap goads, repeated slights.

"Let's settle this once and for all, Barricade," Onslaught said, his voice gentle.

"No." Barricade stepped back, toward the door, curling his fists so that it didn't look so much like a retreat. "Ends with me in the brig. Not falling for it."

"Give my word, as I gave it for you." That was the phrase that broke him. Barricade launched himself across the room, vaulting onto the desk, one hand curled into lethal talons, aiming at Onslaught's face. Onslaught flinched back, the talons ringing against his battle mask, one catching him under his armor.

"Feel better?" Onslaught asked. He felt a trickle of heat from a damaged energon line.

"No," Barricade snarled, his optics feral.

"Maybe try again."

Barricade grunted, coming up from the left side with a balled fist. Onslaught caught it with one hand, driving Barricade backwards till the courier fell flat on his back against the desk, fist pinned by Onslaught's larger hand.

Onslaught found himself getting strangely aroused. He tried to tell himself it was because this is how it had all started with Vortex. Barricade was…useful. And Onslaught had more respect for the little interceptor than he wanted to admit. Partly from reading Barricade's records. His cortex flew back to the time he'd kissed him: a rare impulse. Onslaught didn't really do impulses…but he'd done this one, and he could taste, still, the smaller mech's startled response.

He ducked in, his battle mask snapping open, his mouth fierce and eager on Barricade's.

Barricade made a panicked noise in his vocalizer, his free hand clawing at Onslaught's shoulder. Onslaught pulled away, his chassis resting on Barricade's. He smiled. It was hard to tell it apart from a smirk—the scar that disfigured his facial plating pulled one corner of his mouth up unevenly. Barricade's optics were spiraled tight, fear and aggression warring within him.

"Don't…do that," Barricade said. He jerked at his trapped fist, the tire squeaking against the table. Onslaught pushed one of Barricade's legs aside with a twist of his hip, bumping his pelvic plate against Barricade's.

"Why not, Barricade? Tempted?"

"No!" Barricade shoved one foot against Onslaught's chassis, trying to push him off bodily. His foot scraped Onslaught's hip, causing him to hiss with half-pain.

"No, what, Barricade?" He caught Barricade's clawing attack, pinning that down to the desk as well. He could feel Barricade's exvents, hot gusts of panicked air against his chassis and the wild light in the four optics scorched at him.

Barricade struggled with himself. At a loss for words, Onslaught noted. He lowered his mouth to Barricade's, the smaller mech responding fiercely, biting at the metal plates, halfway between an attack and a kiss. Onslaught felt a growl build in his own vocalizer, and a real desire rise in him. He squeezed the wrists, feeling the tires bulge around his fingers.

Barricade managed to get both feet between he and Onslaught, and shoved the larger mech bodily away. He tore his wrists from Onslaught's grasp and came up, swinging at the commander, optics laserpoints of fury.

Onslaught took the blow and snapped his hand against the striking arm's elbow before Barricade could follow through. Barricade was good at hand-to-hand—one had to be with his size and former occupation—but Onslaught was better. And Barricade's cortex was not in 'mission' mode. Forgivable. And more proof that Barricade needed this.

Onslaught used the arm bar to swing Barricade back down, face first, across the desk. His datapad flew from the surface, clattering on the floor. He shoved against Barricade's aft, leaning over, the controlled arm between them. "Tell me you don't want this," he murmured. Barricade squirmed, trying to rake down Onslaught's thigh with his foot. Barricade snarled into the desk, his free arm flailing, the back kibble slapping against Onslaught's chest.

"More than that," Onslaught said, leaning to put more strain on the shoulder joint, grinning as Barricade gasped, shuddering in a way that was not a pain reaction. "You need this, don't you? Don't get this from your innocent little copter friend, do you?"

That was the right/wrong thing to say—Barricade screeched in outrage, his entire body bucking under Onslaught's bulk. Onslaught heard the door whoosh open: Vortex stood there, at the ready, alarmed by the noise, rotors flared.

"Oh," Vortex said, straightening up. "Sorry. Didn't realize you were doing some counseling."

"No need to apologize," Onslaught said. He shifted his grip, to slide one hand down Barricade's side. In full view of Vortex. Barricade seethed with humiliation.

"Need anything?" Vortex hesitated, his optics transfixed. Doubtless, Onslaught thought, remembering their own times together. That had also been too long. Since Moonracer.

"No," Onslaught said, breezily. "I've got this one under control." He laughed as Barricade began thrashing, his ego bruised by the comment. Oh, he hated to admit to himself—probably as much as Barricade hated to admit it—that this felt good.

"Fraggin' HATE you!" Barricade snapped. Onslaught felt the mech activate his blade weapon and try, vainly, to strike over his shoulder at Onslaught. Onslaught laughed, ducking out of the way. Vortex lingered in the doorway, practically salivating. Onslaught frowned. He had his own interface partner, Vortex did. In fact, it was Moonracer. Onslaught would gladly have traded.

But then he wouldn't feel like he could do…this.

Barricade jerked his head back, suddenly, driving his helm into Onslaught's chin and somehow managing to swing one of his legs under and in front of him in a lithe gymnastic move that only a mech with his reflexes and frame could have managed. He twisted himself out of Onslaught's grasp, landing in a fighting crouch, talons like daggers.

Onslaught rubbed his chin with the back of his hand, wiping away a few seeping drops of energon from punctures from Barricade's facial crest. So…he got a few new scars. Rather hard, he thought, to get much uglier than he already was. He beckoned with his pink-smeared hand at Barricade, 'bring it on'.

Barricade dove at Onslaught, coming in low but darting up at the last instant, over Onslaught's low guard, raking his talons along the winchframe, while the other hand hunted for a weak join in the underarm. Onslaught hissed in pain and arousal, spinning into Barricade's attack and throwing both their body masses toward the floor, landing all of his weight on top of Barricade.

"You know how I know you really want this?" he murmured, his energon-seeping mouth close to Barricade's audio. "If you didn't, I'd be dead, wouldn't I, Barricade?" He felt Barricade's talons scrabble at his armor. He pushed his own throat closer to Barricade's mouth, feeling the smaller mech sink his teeth in. But, just like he said, hard enough to hurt—not hard enough to kill. And Barricade had that difference exquisitely calibrated. "Just give in," he whispered, lifting his head to bite down on one of Barricade's upper tires.

"No…yes," Barricade whimpered. Victim of nothing but his own desire. His talons locked into Onslaught's armor, his mouth seeking Onslaught's in a desperate, tearing kiss, denta and glossas warring against each other, his body surging under and against Onslaught's, glossa flicking hungrily at the energon from Onslaught's injured face.

Onslaught lifted his hips, fingers rough on Barricade's interface panel. He felt Barricade push into it, not wanting Onslaught to be gentle. Wanting, Onslaught thought, this to be as different from interfacing with the copter as possible. So it wouldn't feel so much like a betrayal.

Onslaught would comply. He tore at the hatch, releasing his own in a smooth gesture and driving his spike into Barricade's valve. Barricade growled at the intrusion, his claws jabbing under Onslaught's armor, sending white prickles of pain, like scintillant thorns, into Onslaught's sensor net. The larger mech growled with unfeigned pleasure. "More," he murmured. Barricade snarled, biting into his energon line. Onslaught felt the hot puncture as the smaller mech's denta broke the mesh, the tugging on the line as Barricade shook it in his mouth. Frag, but the interceptor was a deadly little thing, wasn't he?

He felt Barricade's spike release, pinned between their bodies, a slick hard heat, almost stabbing Onslaught's winch. Even his valve seemed hostile—grabbing at him as if trying to crush his spike. He rocked his pelvis against Barricade's, his spike's end striking the topmost node. Barricade groaned around the energon line he still bit, his hands clawing around Onslaught's broad back, clutching at him, dragging him down harder against him as if trying to smother himself. Onslaught jerked one of Barricade's legs to the side, fingers hooked under the knee joint, pulling it up around his pelvic frame. He could feel the tension through the thigh servos, a singing sort of vibration—push fighting against pull, surrender against resistance.

Onslaught began driving into the interceptor, feeling the valve seize around him as if trying to shut him out, but always yielding at the next thrust, the hips arcing up to meet him, the talons tearing at his armor in long scratches. Barricade's optics shuttered closed, though Onslaught could not tell if that was to shut Onslaught out or himself inside within his sensations. The only sound between them was their evenly paced heavy ventilation.

Barricade started moaning, helplessly, his head dropping back against the floor, his one leg hooking around the back of Onslaught's thigh, goading him, pulling him on. Onslaught could feel the overload build in the quivering valve, in the slickness of the spike sliding against his winch with every thrust. Oh, the poor little thing needed this. And Onslaught needed this—fierce, selfish release, no complication, no consideration. Just taking. Using. Mutually. Barricade wanted this, needed this, as much as he did. Onslaught wondered how hard it was for Barricade to hold back, to force himself to be gentle, considerate, with Blackout. To not give him…this.

Barricade reared back, with force enough to push Onslaught's weight up, a cry tearing from his throat, his denta ragged against Onslaught's cables, as both of his interface systems plunged into overload. Onslaught shoved in once more, his spike brutal against the top node. Barricade jerked, bodily, as the last thrust sent Onslaught's own overload into him, against him, a force of heat and pressure and lust made palpable.

Onslaught felt his body stiffen, then soften as the overload ended. Oh Primus, he had needed that. As much as Barricade, still trembling beneath him, did. Pure, raw, animal release. He ducked down, not so much kissing Barricade (that would feel, in the circumstances, slightly wrong), but licking the spatters of his energon from Barricade's protesting lips. Barricade moaned, as if only half here and half…somewhere else. Onslaught shifted back onto his knees, feeling the slickness against him where Barricade's spike overload had left a silver mess. Good thing he had no meetings until later. Barricade lay there, shivering, optics squeezed shut.

Onslaught chuckled, softly. "You needed that worse than I thought. Want another round?" His equipment signalled its readiness to go along with that.

"Didn't want that round," Barricade muttered, his optics flickering open. He opened and closed his hands—the servos had stiffened. "Hate you so much right now." He rolled to one side, looking down in dismay at the silvery mess on his chassis, his thighs.

Onslaught smiled. "Any particular reason or just the usual?"

Barricade dropped his head between his hands. "Frag. Blackout…."

"He'll forgive you." Onslaught leaned back, opening a bottom drawer. He tossed a cleansing cloth at Barricade, opening a bottle of hose-sealant, dabbing it into the damaged energon line in his throat, head tilted to one side.

"Tired of needing forgiveness." Barricade snatched the cloth, swiping angrily at his stained frame.

"You needed it, Barricade. You know you can't do that with him. Would you rather have let it build up and gone off on him?"

"No. Copter doesn't deserve that. Doesn't deserve…me."

Onslaught frowned. Barricade was teetering the other direction—into self pity. "I do?" Onslaught quirked a smile, wincing as it tore open his energon-scabbed mouth.

"Yeah, slaggin' bastard," Barricade muttered. He looked at the stained rag in his talons, his expression lost. Onslaught knew that Barricade knew he was right. And that it was better to let that out here, with him, than drop it on the copter. Blackout probably didn't know of Barricade's classified missions. Probably never connected Barricade and the notorious Shadowblade. Onslaught did. And while Shadowblade had his uses, the war was over, and Barricade, just like the rest of them, deserved to be able to lay his weapons down.

"You can come to me, or Vortex, whenever you need to."

Barricade shot him a look of cold murder as he got to his feet, slapping the filthy rag at Onslaught's chassis. "Coldest day the fraggin' Pit's ever seen," he snarled. He grabbed the command node, moving faster than he'd moved in a long time, and slammed it home on Onslaught's chassis.


	34. Walkins Welcome

_A/N: For those interested in Starscream's backstory, specifically what happened to him between A Time For Trust and this story, then hop over to our Fav Stories list. There you'll find the first chapter of"Starscream's Rebirth" which will tell the tale of his rescue and rehabilitation with the "fabled predacons" (aka imported Beast Wars characters). Antepathy is going to help me write that story and I'm quite looking forward to the dark and angsty journey we'll take poor Screamer on. O.o_

_But in the meantime, here's a heavy dose of my shameless fangirliness for Megatron. ^.^ (with a super-cliffhangery ending 0.0)_

* * *

**Walk-ins Welcome** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

Inamorato wasn't in a particularly upbeat mood that evening. It was much quieter than normal, a stale mourning still lingering from when the crime of a few solars past had been announced. The staff felt incomplete but it wasn't due to being understaffed. Quite the opposite, in fact. Lockdown had left early by request of Madam Strika. He had seemed too unstable and the madam feared he could get unreasonably hostile with any potentially bad-behaving guests. Two bouncers were not necessary for the limited number of patrons in the house. Brawn could handle them just fine, especially since the glum mood seemed to affect them as well. Arcee had suggested they turn on the "Walk-ins Welcome" sign in hopes of attracting more stimulating business.

Chromia looked over the house with apathy. Normally she would be teaching that pole a thing or two, but Skywarp's choice of playlist wasn't conducive to exhibitionism. Even if it was, she doubted it would be enough to break her lazily sultry pose the edge of the dance platform. Dark clouds or not, she had a job to do, but a side-lain display of her curves was all the seduction she could muster. There was no point in throwing herself on any of the customers. There were all wrapped in their uneventful conversations, most of which she could guess, revolved around their lackluster achievements in the pointless routines they called careers. Business mechs were not her cube of high grade, at least not the ones who didn't run the business of managing Kaon's gladiatorial arena.

The probationary femme allowed herself the faintest of dreamy smiles as she watched her pink and white boss concoct some fanciful energon cocktails. She wondered what Megatron's favorite drink was and if Arcee was capable of mixing it to his standards. Prowl certainly was. That damned little perfectionist had been an amazing bartender, so meticulous and scientific in his approach to mixing, yet still so artistic. Chromia missed the company of her old flame, she wouldn't deny that. Even though he rarely appreciated her playful sense of humor, she had grown quite addicted to seeing how many times in one night she could get him to turn away from in her with an insulted huff.

She tried not to think about how the Elite Guard was handling his kidnapping, for her temper's sake. Hostility was not the choicest of moods for an escort, but worry and gloom she could work with. It pinged her spark to see the silken apron without his prim chassis giving it form. Arcee had hung it on the shelves behind the bar, pinning it in place with a single golden shuriken and placing a candle next to it, whose vigilant flame she never let die.

"My my my, if it isn't the dashing mech who _should've_ been elected Magnus." Sunstorm's singsong voice bled down from the balcony to audio-shot of Chromia and Arcee. The femmes shot glances to the door and perked simultaneously in surprise when a stately red and blue Prime made his way into the house. Chromia watched him greet Brawn with a nod then cross the dance floor to meet with Arcee at the bar.

"I hope he hasn't come for round two." Ramjet purred, nudging his elbow into Sunstorm's arm. "He wasn't an enjoyable client in the slightest."

"How could he stay away from such an illustrious interfacer such yourself," replied the golden jet with a sidelong elevator glance to his fellow clone.

Chromia whipped an annoyed glance to the jets and signaled them to keep it down. They responded with pure sass, raising their optic ridges and crossing their arms, but still ceased their idle chat. The femme quickly focused back on the Autobot commander, noting his very professional demeanor. Every other time he'd come here was for leisurely purposes, usually coerced by Jazz, and his initial entrance to the place had always put him in an awkward state until he had drink or two, but this time he was different; clearly not looking for a good time. The others guests watched him too, obviously surprised to see the famed hero in a pleasure house on a weeknight.

Chromia strained to listen in on his conversation with Arcee, cueing specifically to the mentioning of "suspected abductor" and "Elite Guard search efforts." Arcee placed her hand on Optimus's cheek and inquired to his health, which the Prime assured was "well enough" that she "need not bother with concerns about him when bigger issues were at stake." The eavesdropping escort watched Optimus bow his head remorsefully and Arcee respond with a consoling grip to his hands. The madam's sympathetic words of "not your fault" and "beyond your control" were obviously not helping the Prime, despite her ability to deliver such canned responses with the utmost of sincerity.

Chromia felt a ripple of irritation course through her wings. She cringed at how much deliberating claptrap it must have been taking the Elite Guard just to organize a search party for Prowl; all the useless leads they were interrogating, all the time-swallowing paperwork. These things made her grateful not to be involved in the quagmire of Autobot bureaucracy anymore. Too bad Onslaught's crew couldn't be put in charge of Prowl's rescue. Those bots would get the job done without falter and no doubt leave a pretty wake of payback to all those involved; mission accomplished, case closed.

But such wishful thinking was futile. The Decepticons didn't care about Prowl. She wished she didn't care about Prowl as that wasn't very 'con-like of her, but she did and she wanted him brought home safe and sound just as much as his Autobots did.

She could only wonder what Lockdown was going through. The anger, sickening worry and lust for vengeance. The mech didn't say much on the matter but he didn't have to. The unstable look in his optics that she had witnessed earlier told her everything. Strika had been wise to let him off early. He was in no state to "leave his politics at the door."

Arcee and Optimus had obviously shifted off the topic of Prowl when Chromia resumed her eavesdropping on them. She kept hearing Arcee mention "Ratchet" and "regret"; the Prime only being able to respond with clichés like "time heals the wounded spark" and "just give him some space" and all such nonsense. She wasn't sure where Optimus got his information but she knew damn well time didn't heal wounds. Quite the opposite in fact. The more time that passed from her days working for the Quintessons, the stronger her maddening desire for vengeance became. Time only made her dwell on her wounds, question why they were inflicted in the first place. Time was the worst nemesis her assaulters could face for every stellar cycle that passed that didn't quench her lust for vengeance.

Chromia was now in a complete state of contempt, not at all appropriate for the role she was supposed to be playing. It was just her luck that that was the moment her unanticipated client would arrive, taking the entire house by surprise when his massive form filled the entrance. His commanding presence sending even the unbreakable Brawn into an intimated stance. Arcee and Optimus simply froze, their conversation coming to an abrupt halt. The guests grew silent too, not sure what to expect; their faces contorted with one obvious question. Since when does the Slag Maker, destroyer of worlds, arena tycoon and co-hero of Cybertron…need to pay for a date?

Chromia's spark swelled and fluttered as she watched Strika scramble to her leader's side and apprehensively point to the "check weapons at bouncer station" sign. Megatron scowled at this but unhitched his fusion cannon anyway then reluctantly handed it off to an uncertain Brawn, giving the small Autobot a threatening look in the process. Strika obligingly asked what service her operation could provide and Chromia nearly fell off the dance platform when she heard the angelically devilish voice purr out "private room" and paid a glance in her direction.

"Off courze, Lord Megatron," assured the madam general. "Chromia vould be happy to attend to your needz."

Understatement of the millennia.

The astounded escort must have had a temporary lapse of awareness given the sheer squee-worthiness of her reality, because somehow she found herself already standing in the Exotic Room with only a blurry, fleeting memory of being led up the sweeping stairway by a death-bringing hand gently pressing to her back. She met the unreadable optics of her deliciously unpredictable leader who was seated casually across from her on the extra-large, circular bed. She was regrettably (self-loathingly regrettably) at loss for words…AGAIN! Fraaaag! Would she ever be given a chance to prepare? Sure, Megatron said he'd visit her here, but Chromia wasn't protoformed yesterday and knew mechs will say A LOT of things they don't mean when their mid-facin'. She never expected his patronage to Inamorato. Dreamed it, yes; expected it, no.

"It's," she stammered, completely lacking in any respectable game, "so nice of you to visit." Idiot. What other canned phrases could she completely turn him off with?

"Yeeess," he replied. Even his casual voice could raze entire civilizations. "I have been meaning to come for quite some time."

She closed the gap between them, slowly, carefully, her gaze remaining fixed on his possible hint of a smile which still towered over her despite his seated position. She greeted their close proximity with a daring touch to his knees, her hands instantly tingling by the contact with his impenetrable structure. A part of her didn't want him here, didn't him want to…pay, as if he were just another customer looking for a not-so-cheap thrill. She wanted her intimacy with Megatron to be exclusive, off-the-clock and completely separable from her job. How the frag could any client compare to him? How could she possibly entertain another in this room if it were to be christened by her second interfacing (just as anticipated as her first) with _him_. No, she couldn't have it this way; couldn't underplay it so.

Megatron captured her in a rough kiss, which was probably gentle by his standards. She instantly moaned into him as his monstrous hand cupped her entire helmet, her conflicting thoughts of postponing their expected intimacy quickly dwindling. Holy pit-spawned deity did he taste good; like aged cunning and wickedly charismatic speeches. Her glossa took any chance it could get to explore his oral plating—when his glossa wasn't brutally twining around it and forcing it to beg for mercy.

She dragged her hands up his thighs as she was pulled deeper into him, noting the coarseness of his alloy and pondering (somehow managing a thought besides how delicious his joint lubricant smelled) that his chassis was unacceptably unpolished for a figure of his standing. She ran her hands up his chest, stopping to tap her delicate fingers idly on his insignia, and allowing a scheming smile to interrupt their torrential kiss.

Megatron pulled back slightly to raise a single, questioning brow to her.

"Would you," she began bravely, her optics shifting as she took in the whole of his face, "like your chassis waxed?"

The gladiator's brow pinched in perplexing as he dropped his glance to look over his body, holding his arms out for inspection. She was surprised at his impartiality to his outer appearance. Surely this luminary would've paid closer attention to such details, and if not, why hadn't Shockwave hired a bot to do it for him?

"Is something the matter with my appearance?" he questioned, his tone more threatening than inquiring.

"Oh no!" she corrected, optics wide with fear. "Primus, no." She slipped out from between his legs, her hands drifting down his arm as she backed up toward the nightstand. "It's just…a figure such as yourself should always shine for his followers…" this plan wasn't half-bad, she thought to herself as she opened the drawer on the small, gaudy table "to remind them that not only is their leader surpassing in power…" she removed a small cosmetic container from the drawer and held it up like a game show model displaying a fabulous prize, "but surpassing in beauty as well."

Megatron stared at her for a long moment, almost breaking an expression.

"Very well." He said flatly.

"Excellent!" she squeaked, almost bouncing back to him. This was the perfect plan; lather him up all night with mood enhancing oils and stimulating conversation then request he take her back to the arena to "finish" their encounter. He didn't need to know that her shift ended in a couple mega-cycles. She could just chalk it up to assuming Strika informed him of her schedule. How wonderful would it be if he took her in his own regal berthroom; pulled her out of her work environment and let her truly give herself to him because she wanted to, not because it was required of her. Their first time had indeed been a magical experience but she wasn't a fool; she knew it wasn't uncommon of him to "introduce" newly branded Decepticons to his hierarchy system with a little "one on one" time. She wasn't anything special to him right now, but she could change that. With a little patience and a lot of strategic game, she would earn herself a substantial role in this dignitary's life.

She stepped up onto the bed, trailing her hand along his impressive arm as she positioned herself at his side. Normally she would start at the back, but his hulking copter parts weren't nearly as interesting as the rounded plating that promised more responsive reactions from her skillful touch.

"Tell me, Lord," she pulled a plump, pink sham from the container, "what brings you here tonight?"

Megatron eyeballed the offensively feminine cloth that was to be used on his greatness as his peculiar double-agent caked it up with the translucent, shimmering wax. "I am curious," he began, sitting up straight and wrapping his arm behind her to allow access his to his crimson flanks. "As to what information you have gathered from Elite Guard officers."

She fought the urge to sulk as she began the slow circling movement of the sham, achingly disappointed by his very unromantic response.

"Namely the Magnus," the tyrant added, his tone quieting in disgust.

Fragging pit, that's one topic that will kill a perfectly good seduction. She sunk down to her knees so she could comfortably reach his hip plating, her processor kicking into overtime as she plotted how she was going to make business-talk sexy.

"Sentinel Magnus isn't one of my regulars," she offered truthfully, "the madams think it's bad form to pair a client up with a…past acquaintance."

"That is not what I want to hear," replied the tyrant with a frown.

"But," she continued with urgency, pushing the sham across the front of his sculpted abdomen and pressing her chassis into his side, "I do entertain Rodimus Prime…" She met his questioning stare with a devious grin. "And he's rather high up on the food chain."

Megatron relaxed a notch so the femme seized the moment and slipped her leg over his thigh, seating herself comfortably on his lap.

"Rodimus Prime has been quickly falling out of favor with the Magnus." She started polishing her muse's insignia, taking extra care not to leave streaks on it. "And most of EG officers have no respect for Sentinel whatsoever."

"Did they ever?" inquired the commander, resting a thick hand to her back, his thumb exploring up the space between her wings.

His touch was merciless, wiping her processor clean of whatever point she was gearing up to make. She dimmed her optics and opened her mouth to reply, but couldn't find any words that qualified as common dialect for Cybertronians.

"General Strika informs me," the tyrant stated, impartial to the femme's current state of ineloquence, "that a few of Magnus's cronies have gone sniffing around her prized lieutenant, Oil Slick." Megatron paused, the bridge of his nose crinkling while his face washed over in confusion. He looked side to side, as if searching for something. "What in the All Spark is that aroma?"

"Um," the femme faltered, a giant grin spreading across her face, "flavored chassis wax?" her voice was meek. Megatron only stared at her uncomprehendingly, forcing her to lose the smile. "Later, perhaps."

"As I was saying," Megatron resumed with a stern tone, "the Elite Guard is prying into the personal business one of my officers and I would like to know the reason why."

Chromia let the sham drift down the mighty chest and come to a rest in her lap, her gaze dropping with it. "He's a suspect in the kidnapping." She fidgeted with the sham, cursing internally for allowing her remorse to spill over into her act. "They found Byte at the crime scene."

"It cannot be proven that any member of my army is involved in Kaon's Byte trafficking." His response sounded almost automated. He lifted her chin with a single finger and looked sharply into her optics, his other hand still absently stroking her spine. "Tell me about this kidnapping. Who was abducted?"

"Prowl…the Autobot nin—"

"I know who Prowl is," Megatron calmly interrupted, "I was the one who resurrected him."

Chromia was well aware of this fact but she was also well aware of Megatron's short-term memory when it came to Autobots' names. Prowl should feel honored.

"Why is Oil Slick being questioned to the ninja's disappearance?" he continued. "Why not that underhanded bounty hunter? He seems a likelier suspect."

"Oh no," she promptly corrected, layering the sham up with more wax. "Lockdown would never harm him…well, not now at least." She pressed her body flush to his as she reached for the plating at his collar. The feel of his warm exvents on her thin abdominal alloy sent stimulating tingles dancing through circuits.

"Are you implying," he questioned with an obvious attempt to suppress his curiosity, "that a self-serving cannibal is capable of…caring for another? An Autobot no less?"

"More or less," she lightly shrugged, her interest in the topic waning as she slowly and sensually circled the sham over his shoulder.

"Then it is no stretch to the imagination that he is capable of harming the ninja," he replied coarsely. Then, as if someone peeled back a layer of his mysticism, he spoke again, his voice softer, distant. "It is not uncommon for one to physically harm those they care about."

That was quite the statement to make. Her rhythmic guiding of the sham slowed as her processor chewed over what would drive him to believe such a thing, let alone vocalize it.

"Enough." His abrupt voice interrupted her thoughts. She cowered as his hand snatched the sham from hers and tossed it aside. "I do not wish to smell like a confections factory."

Megatron flipped over to lie upon his front, trapping her between him and the berth. He leaned half his weight into his elbow so as not to crush her then slid a single hefty digit behind her neck. He looked her over with a contemplative expression then pulled her into a lustful kiss, growling when he felt her body squirm against his.

Fragging pit, she cursed internally despite the wash of exhilaration over her body. She did NOT want to 'face him here but oh dear Primus did she want to 'face him right here right now. His other hand found its way to her hip, a twitch away from triggering the retraction of her panel. She helplessly moaned into him, her vocals greeted with a rumbling purr as their mouths took turns fighting for dominance of the others lips. His thumb traced the seams of her inner thigh, up and down, up and down, slow and steady. Each pass inching closer to her interface panel; the teasing enough to drive her blissfully mad.

He broke the kiss to stare curiously down at her, specifically the wax that his chassis smeared onto hers. He dove back into her then dragged his glossa along her shoulder and collar. She vocalized something fierce then trapped his explorative hand between her thighs, urging it to complete the task it set out for. Megatron brought his face to line up merely a breath above hers and the smile she saw form on it sent her into a state of disbelief.

"Tastes like an energon goodie," mused the arena boss. Only Megatron could make the word 'goodie' sound like a death threat. She geared up for the delivery of an adorably witty response, but was interrupted when an obnoxious shrill screech came crashing into her audio, bleeding through the Exotic Room's door.

"Is there a spark reader in the house?!" hollered the unmistakably seekeresque voice.

That voice clearly did not sit well with Megatron as his smile abruptly retreated.

Chromia felt like erupting. She didn't know which clone it was but he was dead; sentenced to certain oblivion for a tactless infiltration to her moment. Those fragging jets knew she was the only spark reader at Inamorato and they certainly knew better than to interrupt her time with a client.

Especially when her client was Megatron.

She somehow found enough strength to unpin herself from the entrapping chassis of the former gladiator and slide off the berth. She turned an unstable grin to the puzzled mech then spun around and ducked her head into a comm. call.

_[I don't know which one of you frag-ups that was but you are dead. DEAD.]_

She cast another clenched smile to Megatron, fighting with everything she was to maintain the air of control. "I'm just…seeing what they want. Clones can be rather…demanding at times."

"I do not doubt that," the tyrant said with a roll of his optics.

_[It wasn't I…]_ sang Sunstorm through her private comm, _[or Ramjet]_.

_[Skywarp?]_ she snapped with a whisper.

_[You might want to come out here and behold the delectable spectacle with your own lovely sapphire optics. But make sure your prestigious client stays in the room…unless of course, we want the evening to take a turn for the deliciously ugly.]_

Chromia's spark twisted in queasiness at his implications. She kept her back turned to Megatron, fearing what her stricken expression might betray to him. This was not happening, not tonight, not here, not when she's so fragging close to a pivotal seduction.

She twirled around, immediately regaining her signature grin then floated carelessly to then nightstand. "It appears I have some, quick business to see to," she offered a cube of high grade to the gorgeously confused behemoth who took it with a slight raise of his optic ridge, "but I won't be long." She glided to the door, her feigned composure crumbling by the nano-klik. "I'm sure it's just a…scheduling error."

She stormed onto the balcony, slamming the Exotic Room's door behind her and locking burning optics onto an infuriatingly thrilled Sunstorm who stood just out of flailing fist reach.

"If this is some kind of sick joke?" she seethed, dreaming up the all the punishment she'd like to inflict on her "fellow" escort.

Sunstorm only smiled wider and gestured down to the main floor.

Her attention shifted in slow motion, the simple movement of a head turn lasting an eternity due to the fear and disgust building in her spark. She knew who was down there but she didn't want to see him. Didn't want the one thing that could tear Megatron from her berth to be on her plane of existence, let alone in her place of business. But she couldn't prevent it. And there he was, standing smugly between a flustered candy-stripe madam and uneasy arachnid femme, staring up at her in expectation with his highly annoying smirk.

*****A Half-Megacycle Earlier*****

The flames on Blackarachnia's candles that normally burned proudly and lit up her berthroom now seemed to cower away from the seething temper spewing from her winged companion. Starscream paced furiously, fists clenched at his sides, processor on the verge of splitting open. The spider could almost swear a groove was being worn into her plush carpeting.

"How can you be certain…" she said, leaning forward from her seated position on the berth, "this, Tarantulus took everything? Maybe you just can't remember the human's knowledge because you haven't accessed it in so long."

"No," the seeker snapped, unconvinced, "it has only been half a stellar cycle and I do not forget such substantial things that easily."

"But…why would he do that? And why did you allow him access to your memory cache?"

Starscream froze in his tracks, casting an uncertain glance to the spider. "I…," he began uncomfortable, "would rather not discuss that. It doesn't matter why I gave him access, what matters is he has robbed me and I must now go back and reclaim what is rightfully mine!"

Starscream made for the door but Blackarachnia leapt off the berth and grabbed his arm. "Wait!" she urged. "I have an idea."

Starscream eyeballed her skeptically but eased up on his hasty exit. "Speak, but be quick about it!"

"Could a spark reader possibly be able to tell whether you've been truly stripped of your organic counterpart?" She gazed hopefully into him then rested her claws on his cockpit. "A real spark reader, not some, fried-circuited hippy—"

"Possibly," he cut in, his temper curbing slightly. "Do we know a bona fide spark reader? Especially one who won't blow my cover to the wrong bot?"

"Well," she ventured apprehensively, "The only reader I know is Chromia…and she's rather…dedicated to Megatron, but—"

"Terrific!" Starscream through his arms up and turned away from the femme. "The one bot that can help me is that dubious double-agent."

"But!" she grabbed his arm again. "She conducts her business in a neutral establishment, and is therefore required by her contract to keep her customer dealings confidential."

Starscream narrowed his optics. "How confidential?" he growled bitterly. "If she's under the influence of Megatron, then what's to stop her from telling him everything? Surely she values that insolent ingrate over this…neutral contract, especially since all she cares about is being in his good graces."

"She values her job," the spider countered. "It keeps her out of the stockades."

She snatched Starscream's cloak from the floor then draped him around him. "Come on," she urged him toward the shop door, despite his unconvinced state. "I'll take you to Inamorato. Nothing can happen to you there. The madams stand firmly behind their neutral standing."

"But does Chromia stand firmly behind it?" Starscream yanked his hood over his helm as the pair exited Parlour Trix and ducked into the shadows of Kaon's tourism district.

"I don't know, but no harm can come from feeling her out." The spider tugged and straightened his poncho so it fully covered his cherry-red plating. "Considering how Lockdown, Swindle AND Oil Slick already knew you're alive, it wouldn't surprise me if Megatron did too, so what new information could she possible tattle to him?"

The pair briskly walked down the unpopulated street, heading toward the faint pink neon sign that boasted of high-class sin.

"So," the spider continued, as if almost trying to convince herself, "if we show up and Chromia gives us a bad vibe, then we'll just leave and she'll have nothing more to report to Megatron then your quick patronage to the brothel. For all we know, she could've taught one of your clones that work there how to spark read, and surely the would respect your confidentiality."

"Hah! That's rich!" Starscream would have guffawed if he wasn't looking over his shoulder at every turn. "Have you met my clones?"

"Just trying to be optimistic is all," she defended with slight irritation, also nervously checking each alley they pass by.

"Sounds like you're having a relapse of Autobot programming."

That comment earned the cheeky jet a violent smack to the arm.

*****Present Time*****

"Frag THAT frequency, I will NOT touch his slimy spark!" Chromia hissed in protest, hands planted on her hips as she leered down at Starscream from elevated position on the stairway. She could only pray to this alleged "Primus" that Megatron had no clue to the events playing out before her and that she would hastily be released of such an utterly ridiculous request so she could go back to reminding her guest of all he WASN'T missing the from this filthy traitor staring expectantly at her.

"I prefer you DIDN'T!" barked the proud seeker. "Is there any OTHER spark reader in the house BESIDES this disrespectful—"

The hulking madam general stepped in front of Starscream, cutting off his tirade and blocking his view of the bristling escort. "You be vise to leaff, right now!"

"Why!?" he raged in insult. "I've just as much right to service as any of these…" he glanced over the house, specifically noting Optimus Prime staring quizzically at him from the bar, "peasants!"

"Iz for your own saffty, troublezome jet!" Strika used the proximity of her hulking form to press Starscream and his predacon sidekick toward the door.

"Safety?" questioned Blackarachnia. "From who?" She cast a quick glance to the Prime. "Optimus is no threat to him."

"Do not azk qvestionz, juss go!" the madam urged.

Blackarachnia slid her arm under Starscream's, attempting to coerce him to the exit, but the jet wouldn't budge. He just stood rigidly and she could feel an abrupt rise of temperature in his chassis.

"Let's go Starscream," she looked him over in worry then tugged at his arm again.

"It's too late for a hasty retreat," he murmured, his voice uncharacteristically deep and layered with bitterness. His optics were deadlocked to the balcony where a towering figure stood in the doorway to a private room and returned Starscream's stare with a dark, dangerously unreadable expression.


	35. Backfire

_A/N: This picks up immediately following the last chapter._

_And btw, I ship this pairing like UPS. Hope you enjoy my take on them. ^_^_

* * *

**Backfire** by _ToyzInTheAttic_

The tension in the house must have seeped into the A/V room. Inamorato's playlist screeched to a halt just like the cliché scratching of a record. Skywarp wanted no affiliation with this scene whatsoever and chose to remove the music—the only indication of his presence—from the equation. No one else in the house, be it employee or customer, seemed interested in drawing attention to themselves either, especially not when the Slag Maker's crimson optics glared with unpredictable intent at his former SIC.

Starscream stood his ground, feet planted at the base of the stairs, arm crossed over his cockpit. His spark raced at the sight of Megatron, but not in fear. Oh no, fear was too flattering of a response to gift his nemesis with. He couldn't pinpoint exactly what he was feeling, but fear was definitely not it.

"General Strika." Starscream spoke darkly, his optics remaining deadlocked on the immobile figure above him. "Please direct me to your most…resilient of private rooms."

Strika and Arcee exchanged worried glances, fearful of the costly damages that could accrue if they allowed these two to settle their differences under Inamorato's roof. Arcee shook her head, stiff and slight, so only her partner could read her disapproval of the seeker's request.

Strika took in a deep intake then nodded back to Arcee; a nod that assured the Autobot madam that that everything would be okay—well, Inamorato would be okay. She couldn't speak for the jet but she knew their most resilient room—which catered to the more violent fetishes of their customers—could weather the force of a gladiatorial champion much better than any other room in the house. Granted it was never tested and she couldn't be certain it would withstand Megatron's wrath, but it was certainly a better option to letting these two duke it out on the doorstep of what was supposed to be a violence-free establishment.

"Well?" Starscream looked to the general expectantly.

"Zat vould be zee Dungeon," she replied.

The seeker's optics widened. Dungeon? Terrific. What the spark did he just set himself up for?

Slag it. Too late to turn back now. "That is where I will be." He shifted his bitter gaze back to Megatron. "Tell our…_leader_ to desist whatever pleasures he's been reduced to _pay_ for and meet me in there…alone."

Strika cast a careful glance to Megatron, knowing the mech clearly heard each of Starscream's words, then turned back to face the jet.

"Vollow me," she ordered with a firm gesture of her fishnet-gloved arm.

The pair crossed the room, commander and former second still locked in the stare. Starscream finally averted his gaze when he heard a set of stilettos clicking behind him and felt the purple claws of his only ally tug at his arm.

"What are you doing?" the spider whispered, her voice laden with worry.

"This does not concern you, Blackarachnia." The confidence of his whisper obviously threw her off. "I'll meet you back at your shop. Do not wait for me here."

"But—" she attempted to protest but was cut off when the seeker pulled her into a kiss. This, he thought deviously, should really rile Megatron up.

"Trust me," Starscream broke the kiss just as quickly as he initiated it. "Everything will be fine." He pulled away, leaving the femme standing in a confused haze.

As he followed the madam past the bar, he caught a perturbed glance from Optimus Prime, which made him smile in satisfaction. That makes two ruffled birds with one kiss. He cast a glance to the balcony, hoping to see a similar expression on his _leader's_ face, but instead watched him stroll with an obnoxious pride down the curved stairway. The oblivious old fool clearly had not witnessed Starscream's little stunt because he was preoccupied with his own paranoid femme who was attempting, rather unsuccessfully, to hold him back. Megatron was surprisingly gentle with her, removing her from his path with only a light shove.

Starscream bristled at the idea that another bot could tether Megatron's romantic interests, especially when that bot was Chromia, the former Autobot. He can't believe he had actually considered allowing her access to his spark. Had she found out he no longer possessed the key to perpetual energon, she would have blabbed it to Megatron and out the window would have gone Starscream's only bargaining chip against his nemesis.

Thank the All Spark he hadn't allowed anyone access to his personal databanks. Tarantulus just might have robbed him of his valuable knowledge, but no one besides Blackarachnia needed to know that. Not when the promise alone of limitless power could be enough to earn him command of the Decepticon army and make Megatron kneel in repentance at his feet.

The towering madam pushed back a shimmering curtain that hid a dark stairway then directed Starscream to proceed down at his own risk, which he did with admirable bravery. Within moments Megatron was passing by her, equally sound in demeanor. The madam watched him drift ominously down the brick-walled stairway which was dimly lit from the sparingly-placed sconces. She didn't envy Starscream in the slightest.

***

Megatron entered the aptly-named room with caution, casting a 270 degree glance over it. It was dark, cold—everything a dungeon should be. There were chains with wrist cuffs hanging from the ceiling, and a crude iron cage in the corner. The room was a stark contrast to everything else he had experienced at Inamorato. There were no lush pillows here, no velvet tapestries or flutes filled with sparkling energon, no. This was an entirely new environment. One he was distantly familiar with, reminiscent of his younger cycles as an energon crystal miner—a slave to the Autobots.

This was an environment Megatron could properly operate in when he needed reminding of everything he was: a survivor, a revolutionary, an unbeatable gladiator, and most importantly, a merciless leader with only a single, reconcilable weakness.

"How utterly pathetic." The mockingly high-pitched voice echoed through the chamber. Megatron followed the source of it through an arched doorway then stopped short at the scene. His immortal air commander lay upon a berth fashioned to resemble a sacrificial altar. It was surrounded by four towering candles which blazed like ceremonial torches. Megatron didn't know whether to be intrigued or weirded-out by General Strika's choice of fetishy furnishings.

"It almost pains me how much of a joke you've become." Starscream leaned seductively back onto his elbow then brought a single knee to his mosaic-like cockpit—a shamelessly tawdry display. "Cowering in your precious little arena while the Autobots walk all over you."

Megatron was unaffected by the mockery and the seductive act. Both were his former second's classically cheap methods of opening up their pricklier of encounters. Such behavior was always a futile attempt at masking what his underlying intentions were.

"What happened to you, Starscream?" He studied the battered body carefully from dusty pedes to dented wings. The normally vibrant red of the vain jet's alloy was unacceptably faded.

"What do you think happened to me, _Megatron_?" Starscream growled in his most condescending tone, one he reserved specifically for answering idiotic questions.

Megatron found himself drawn toward his misplaced warrior, his gaze stalled on the piecemeal cockpit and crudely welded plating surrounding it. Perhaps he wasn't completely unaffected by the seductive act. He had a multitude of questions, most of them centered around the seeker's whereabouts over the last half-stellar, but none of them were pressing enough to override the desire building in his spark; a wanting that grew stronger as he drew closer to his long-lost guilty pleasure.

"You—" the jet stammered, "you smell like…an energon goody!" His olfactory senses distracted him from his intended chastisement.

Megatron smiled guiltily as he lifted his hand to the luscious body now within his reach, disregarding whatever predictably foolish agenda the jet was plotting. He watched Starscream's charade crumble as his hand slid over the twitching thigh then slowly sought a path toward the inviting red plating. He was surprised he had gotten this far without some kind of vicious reaction but the promise of resistance only made the jet that much more enticing, so he wasn't about to stop.

Starscream fought back a shudder of outrage, highly insulted by the gall of this infuriatingly composed mech. He had only taken the seductive route in hope of curbing Megatron's temper. He didn't actually expect the horny fool to take the bait.

"Don't you" came the inevitable screech, "dare touch me!" The violated seeker landed a kick directly into Megatron's chest plate, knocking him back a couple steps. He leapt down from the berth and stomped to the other side of the room, one hand clutching his thigh as if the tyrant's touch had burned him.

"You're not allowed to touch me, not after what you did!" the seeker hollered, his back turned to his betrayer.

"I can only assume," Megatron responded calmly, quickly recovering from a mere chassis scratching assault, "you are referring to our encounter on the Quintesson ship." He stepped around the berth so the large candles no longer blocked his view of the quivering jet, noting an uncharacteristic slump to his typically proud stance.

"Would you have behaved any differently if the tables were turned?" Megatron reasoned assuredly as he continued around the berth, the gap between them lessening with each determined step. "The real question Starscream is why didn't you inform me of your agenda? I was under the impression we had come to an understanding. A truce, if you will." As soon as the jet was within reach, Megatron pulled him into his chest then cupped his broad hand over the side of his helm.

Starscream refused to look the mech in the optics and seethed at the inappropriate contact, yet he couldn't pull way. He was paralyzed with rage; frozen by the well of repulsion swelling in his spark.

"Was it so difficult to fathom that I may have been willing to trust you?" Megatron continued, his voice teasingly calm.

That was too much for Starscream to take—the suggestion of trust coupled with the affectionate touch and unexpectedly easy nature. With both hands he violently shoved the mech back then flipped around to hide his frustration, knowing well Megatron would take the display of emotion as a personal victory.

He could hear the mech's intakes kick up a notch—the brute's natural response to any hostile contact—but he didn't anticipate a retaliation. Megatron was clearly in one of those moods. Not vengeful, not abusive, not even devious. No, it was worse than all of those combined.

Megatron was in a good mood—his most unpredictable of them all.

At what point did he lose the upper hand here? He thought he had it all planned out, all under control. Knowing Megatron must harbor some guilt toward their last encounter, he had planned to play off of that, use it against him. Take a beating or two, just so he could keep playing the guilt card and weasel his way back into the mech's ranks—then eventually, into his rightful place in the wash-up's throne.

But Megatron wasn't playing fair. He was calm, collected, seemingly impervious to this meeting as if he hadn't anticipated it over the last half-stellar. Starscream had certainly anticipated it—almost too much.

He cringed as he felt the space shrink between him and the unbreakable tyrant. A tiny whimper escaped his vocalizer as a mighty hand slid down his wing then wrapped around his waist. His talons balled into fists and he envisioned himself lashing out with unbridled rage, swinging and clawing like a rabid beast, but once again, he was paralyzed by his own overloaded senses—unable to pull away.

Damn this mech. Damn his addictive touch.

"You betrayed me!" Starscream spat, fighting back a sob of humiliation.

Megatron pressed his cheek to the side of the midnight-black helmet, his warming exvent accompanied with a low hum.

"How ironic." The tyrant's whisper was maddeningly apathetic.

The mech's lips brushed over his neck while his other hand slithered up the dulled red chest and over the makeshift cockpit. Before Starscream could summon the urge to fight the embrace, his head was wrenched to the side and his lips were captured by a hungry mouth.

The seeker reluctantly surrendered all dignity to the moment and kissed his leader back, unable to deny his instinctual gravity toward him. He fully poured himself into the contact, twisting around and pressing hard against the broad chassis, his cockpit daring to crack between the vice of their bodies. He grasped both hands around the gladiator's helmet, crushing the kiss into an inseparable twisting of sucking lips and teasing glossas. They moaned into each other, exchanging unspoken memories of intimacy long past. Countless power plays, always starting with an argument or physical attack then mutating into acts spawned from addictively raw lust. The lines between ally and foe, love and hate, completed disregarded for an unexplainable magnetism between their sparks.

Megatron hoisted his warrior onto the staged altar then climbed with animalistic movements onto him, his chassis lowering slowly so the reconnection of every inch of their bodies could be felt in slow motion. He dove down to resume the kiss but was stopped by a single talon to his chin and a set of bitter optics blaring from beneath a sharp, black brow line.

Starscream fought himself for an appropriate outburst. His logic circuits were certainly screaming an array of profanities but his spark wouldn't let the words form in his vocalizer. Once again, his wily libido was overriding his pride; his renegade arousal shamelessly paving the way for a yet another round of ego-devouring interfacing, and he was helpless to stop it.

The pair hung in a speechless stare, the only sounds coming from the scraping of their chests as they danced together in steep ventillations.

"Is there something you would like to say to me, Starscream?" The inevitable growling inquiry came right on cue.

"I wouldn't know where to begin," the jet replied without hesitation.

Megatron groaned gutturally as he shifted his pelvic plating to lay flush against the red plating beneath him. A tiny smirk tugged at the side of his mouth as he watched his seeker's optics flicker and his face contort between expressions of passion and disgust.

"You can start with explaining why you chose to resurface in this bawdy house with my science officer." Megatron stole a quick but possessive kiss, despite Starscream's attempt to avoid it.

"I'd rather not," the seeker huffed, yanking his head to the side to break their optic contact.

The tyrant was not one to pass up an opportunity and immediately sunk into Starscream's neck, his glossa delicately searching for the ideal cable to bite into. Starscream helplessly whimpered then made an attempt to squirm out from under the entrapping weight. The friction he created between them only invoked more lustful vocalizations, Starscream's almost mistakable for sobs while Megatron's were a villainous chuckle.

"Then tell me," each of Megatron's words sent taunting resonations through Starscream's neck cables, "why it has taken you so long to come to me when you clearly have desired this as much as I have."

The statement slapped him across the face with disrespect. He thrashed violently in attempt to escape the belittling intimacy, but each twist of his body and jerk of his arms only earned him a tighter hold from his captor. He quickly found his arms pinned above his head by a single clamping hand.

Megatron's free hand teased the contours of his face, taking particular interest in his clenched jaw and grinding teeth.

"Did our encounter on board the Quintesson ship truly warrant this extreme of a grudge?" The tyrant's tone was casual enough to be mocking. He knew exactly what he doing. How he was purposely avoiding the subject that could ultimately resurface his guilt on the matter. This infuriated Starscream to no end; being forced to explain what did not need explaining, simply because Megatron would continue to play these insulting mind games if he didn't.

"Your pathetic display of brutality is not the issue here, Megatron. What makes you think that beating was any different from the rest? It was your betrayal. How you lied about my allegiance when you knew, you KNEW that I was not allied with those repulsive aliens."

Megatron continued to stroke the edges of the heated jet's face, his expression shifting to one of contemplation, "I did not set out to betray you, Starscream. We are opposites in that aspect." He paused to steal a kiss from the seeker's scowl. "Others simply filled in the blanks of your intentions with their own assumptions and I had no reason to contradict them."

"Of course you had reason!" he shrieked directly into Megatron's easy smile. "You could have rescued my reputation on this planet and spared me of the countless bounties that now hang over my head."

Megatron studied the jet's aggravated expression with a raised brow. "And what would I have to gain from that?"

"My respect!"

The tyrant burst with laughter, throwing his head back to drive the point in further. Starscream looked away with disdain, feeling foolish for setting himself up for mockery.

"I have functioned perfectly well for centuries without it." Megatron recovered from his outburst then brushed his lips down the seeker's cheek. "What makes you think I desire such a futile gesture?"

Starscream regrettably couldn't respond and even more regrettably accepted a kiss forced upon him. He could taste Megatron's lust in each curious pass of his glossa and he cursed himself for enjoying the flavor. He had not intended to put himself in this inferior position again; not without some semblance of control. He had not expected Megatron to regard him so casually, not after the intensity of their last encounter. He thought for sure he would be greeted with hostility, fueled by crippling guilt.

But he was clearly wrong, proving once again how this mech could keep the upper hand with his incalculable ways.

"Starscream," Megatron broke the kiss with a soft, lecturing voice, "just as you had assumed I would doubt your noble intentions on board that ship, I assumed the Autobot's mindless magnus would regard you similarly. Therefore, I did not see the point in wasting my efforts, and potentially soiling the peace treaty between the factions, just to explain your highly unlikely shift of character."

Starscream gazed into his leader's harshly sincere visage for long, painfully realizing moment. As much as it consumed his pride to admit, Megatron was right. No one that hadn't witnessed it firsthand would have ever believed him capable of risking his spark for Cybertron. Not after the infamous crimes he committed during and after the war: the damaging virus—one of his most brilliantly deadly inventions—that he infected countless soldiers on both sides with, and the beautifully devastating havoc he unleashed on Earth—which no doubt, still remained crystal clear in Optimus Prime's memory core. These ruthless actions had earned him his rightfully vicious reputation on Cybertron, one that he was proud of, but unfortunately, did not help for re-establishing himself back into what is now a peaceful society.

Megatron loosened his grip on his warrior's wrists and but didn't fully release them, obviously pleased with the helpless sprawl it kept the jet in. "Will it appease you to know that I did indeed suffer a spell of guilt for what I did to you?"

Starscream opened his mouth but had no idea what words to fill it with.

"Despite how," the tyrant continued, his thumb brushing across parted lips, "undeserving you were of it."

"Undeserving!?" the seeker protested, his awakened temper quickly restoring his voice. "Do you have any idea what I sacrificed to save this planet? The half-stellar of humiliation I've suffered as a result of your attack on me?"

"Only a half-stellar?" purred Megatron.

"What do mean, only?! How dare you undermine my—"

Starscream cut himself off, suddenly feeling like the most pathetic of fools as a dawning realization slapped his processor. His painfully humbling half-stellar of rehabilitation was only a drop in the bucket to what Megatron must have suffered during his fifty stellars of imprisonment on earth—all of which was the cause of one stealthily placed explosive by his very own talons.

"How easily you forget, my dear seeker, that the wrongs I have inflicted on you hold no merit when compared to all that you have done to me." Megatron's hand drifted down the tapering body of the jet. He stopped at his thigh then travelled across it to tease the warm red plating harboring a valley of untapped pleasure. "I have every reason in the universe to sentence you to an unmerciful oblivion, yet I continue to accept you back into my ranks " Starscream's panel retracted with only a single, well-placed squeeze to his inner thigh and two of the thick black fingers responsible for the action slid smoothly into an awakening valve. "And…"he sighed lustfully, "into my berth."

Starscream dimmed his optics moaned in surrender. He arched his body into the penetration, encouraging it to distract him from the defeat he just suffered at the hands of irony.

"Why do you think I tolerate you, Starscream?" He plunged his hand into his accepting warrior with a skillful rhythm, each thrust reaching deeper as the clenching valve wetted with lubricant. His words were broken with heavy breaths. "Why do think that once I learned you were indeed still alive, I monitored each and every bounty that had been placed on your head…" Starscream whimpered desperately as his deepest, most sensitive nodes were brushed with teasing fingers. "And then set my own bounty with the highest reward…" The familiar sound of Megatron's retracting interface panel filled the jet's audio. "In hopes that when your whereabouts were discovered and you were ultimately captured, that you would be brought to me."

Starscream tilted his head to respond but was silenced when the tyrant yanked his hand away then thrust his fully erected spike into him. The seeker hollered out in demented pleasure at the painful invasion to his body. He desperately wanted to know what Megatron was alluding to with his pompous lecture, but his processor couldn't compute anything beyond the white hot sensations tearing at this valve.

Their mouths met with vengeance and they grunted a duet of lust, timed with each powerful push of the gladiator's body. Starscream wrapped his legs over Megatron's and arched himself into each thrust, his talons searching frantically for specific gaps in the mech's back plating.

Megatron growled in pleasure when the stealthy barbs dug into his sensitive circuitry. Only Starscream knew about the unique pleasure sensors hidden beneath his rotors. The clever jet had discovered it eons ago with his unique method of communicating physically what he could not convey in words.

He pulled back from their devouring kiss and gazed longingly into the face of untamed desire. He wondered how a single, lightweight airframe could house so much passion without bursting at the seams. Despite all his recklessly impulsive (see failed) attempts to overthrow Megatron's command, this ambitious Decepticon was a force to be reckoned with. One of the few, possibly the only being that could still offer a respectable challenge to a mech who has faced nearly every formidable foe the universe has to offer.

"Answer my question, Starscream."

The seeker lit his optics as the gravelly voice pulled him from his euphoria. He cowered slightly at the sight of Megatron's intent glare on him, their stare fixed to each other once again and moving in synchrony to the undulation of their bodies.

"Tell me why I have kept you close to me all this time."

Starscream immediately noted a brutal sincerity in Megatron's voice—a far cry from his typical condescension. What the spark was he getting at? He hated the mech's mind games and was in no place to put up an intellectual challenge, especially when each thought was interrupted by surges of mercilessly arousing agony.

"What is it," the jet breathed the words out between thrusts, "you want me to say, Megatron?"

"The truth."

"Why can't you say it yourself?"

Megatron wrapped his arms under the jets body, his forceful thrusts slowing to match his careful movements as he sat up on his knees and pulled the questioning seeker up to straddle his lap. He slid his hands over the pert red aft then with a revving moan, pressed himself back inside the hungry valve.

"Because I want to hear you acknowledge it." His words were laced with wanton growls.

The mighty hands guided the jet's hips into a circular, grinding motion. He continued to lock his gaze onto Starscream's despite his urge to behold the erect spike he felt pressing against him. "I want to know for certain that you know why I do what I do."

Starscream chuckled lightly through his breathy moaning. Perhaps he hadn't lost all control of the situation. "You're starting to sound a bit desperate, _oh great leader_…What's the matter? Is there something you're afraid to actually admit yourself?"

"Do not try my patience, insolent brat. Just answer the question."

Name-calling: a sure sign of Megatron losing the upper hand. This encounter had just taken a delicious turn for the amusing. He still had no clue what Megatron wanted him to say but that wasn't going to stop him from making the desperate fool beg for it.

"I'd much rather hear you say it," cooed the now playful jet.

"Then expect to be disappointed."

"I usually do when we meet like this," he couldn't resist chuckling at that one.

Megatron responded with a forceful slap to his aft, throwing their rhythm off for a moment and thoroughly enjoying the yelp he pulled from the shocked jet.

"Are you not grateful to be held so prestigiously in my favor, insufferable whelp?" the tyrant landed another slap to the willing aft.

Starscream yelped a second time but it quickly bled into laughter. He scooted closer to his punisher, his hips now grinding dramatically over the black plating.

"Why should I be?" came the bratty response.

"Because I am the only one willing and able to protect you." Megatron was clearly fighting back the urge to overload.

"And why on Cybertron would you do that?" Starscream held fast to his smirk.

"That's what I want to you tell me."

The seeker lost his smirk, his annoyance rising at their circular discussion, despite the electrifying sensation of their bodies' friction. It baffled him to frustration that he couldn't decrypt his leader's intentions. What the spark could he possible wan—wait a nanoklik. The pieces suddenly fell into place and Starscream puffed up with empowerment.

"Fine, Megatron. I'll tell you what you already know. I'll play your silly little games."

The motion of their bodies slowed as Megatron gazed expectantly and almost timidly into his seeker's optics.

"You want the formula." The seeker's tone dripped with sass. "You'd scrap every last shred of your dignity to get a hold of my valuable knowledge so of course you're willing to spare me the punishment, which you think I deserve, and accept me back into you ranks. Because I have something you want that no one else can give you. There, are you happy?"

Megatron's optics glazed over as he stared morosely into Starscream's smirk. "It pains me how utterly clueless you can be." He let his hands slid off the jet's body.

This was not the reaction Starscream was expecting.

"Well…do you want it or not?" the jet barked, dismissing Megatron's last comment.

"Of course I want the formula but I'm not an idiot, Starscream." The mech's body had gone completely stiff. "I know you would never give it to me."

Starscream threw his arms up temperamentally. "Then what the Spark is all this about!?"

A disheartened expression washed over the tyrant's face and he shoved the jet off his lap. Starscream fell back on his aft and watched with a stupefied gape as Megatron closed his interface panel and got up from the berth.

"What in the fragging pit is your damage?" Starscream pursued. He leapt off the berth and closed in quickly on the unreadable mech's back as he made for the door.

Megatron glanced back over his shoulder, eyeballing Starscream's still-retracted interface panel.

"Cover yourself up for spark's sake."

"Answer me Megatron!" He slammed his panel shut with a bristling mix of embarrassment and insult.

"Only a fool," Megatron spoke darkly, "with a death wish would be willing to brave the streets of Kaon alone when every big name in the galaxy is gunning for him."

"Don't change the subject!" Starscream was getting frantic. "Tell me how I offended you?"

Megatron ripped the massive door open and began his descent up the narrow stairwell.

"And since you are clearly too dense to decode the obvious then I expect you lack the street smarts to keep yourself out of harm's reach."

Starscream followed him up the stairs, still utterly clueless to the tyrant's ramblings. He geared up to screech another desperate outburst but was cut off when Megatron abruptly spun around and gripped him by the neck.

"So I suggest you take me up on my offer to protect you and follow me back to the arena tonight." His voice was at its most menacing of tones. He stared hard into Starscream's confused expression then finally released him and made his way into the main room.

The pair emerged from behind the sheer curtains and immediately captured all of Inamorato's occupants' attention. Everyone was shocked to see the seeker still functioning with no new injuries, except for the obvious one. There was a blatant ding to his pride that shown plain as day in the scowl he was paying to Megatron.

"Take a seat," Megatron pointed to a nearby booth, "over there."

"Why!?" the jet raged.

"Because I would like you to wait," he glanced around the room until his optics met Chromia's. "While I finish what I started here." He turned away from Starscream then approached the attentive femme with a commanding gait.

"Come my dear," he held his arm out in a gentlemanly fashion. "Let us resume our evening."

Chromia clung to him in a sparkbeat, her jealously immediately giving way to surprise and giddy joy. They made their way up the staircase then onto the balcony, all under the scrutinizing glare of one seriously ruffled seeker. She made damn certain to shoot her competition a taunting wink as she wrapped herself tighter around the powerful arm. She tried not to envision what the two had been up, seeing how that undeserving snake had an unmistakable glow still lingering on him rather than a new set of dents. She wondered what Megatron could possibly see in that traitor. He was a freak, a loose cannon, the biggest hindrance known to the Decepticon cause, plus he was too arrogantly stupid to know how to appreciate a good thing. Chromia sure as slag knew the value of her commander and she was going to prove that down to every last lick on his deliciously waxed chassis.

Starscream balled his talons so hard they nearly stabbed through his palms. How DARE Megatron do this to him; command him to wait while he cheapened himself with that little ingrate. Nobody treated Starscream with this level of disrespect, especially not in front of…he glanced around the house, desperately scraping at his dignity as the patrons ogled him like some sideshow freak.

"What are you all looking at?!" The outburst nearly shattered every bottle behind the bar. The customers awkwardly averted their gaze into their drinks and attempted to resume their conversations.

"We were just admiring," came a similarly shrill but sing-song voice from one tactless golden jet, "the exquisite fashion statement you're making with your colorfully daring cockp—"

"Shut up!" screeched the original Starscream. He glared with disgust at the pair sporting his model type wondering how in the holy pit his clones had been reduced to escorts.

Megatron peered down from the balcony to behold his humiliated air commander. Shivers hinting to guilt shot down his rotors as his gaze was returned with one of stabbing ire, but he resisted the temptation to act sympathetically.

"You are making a spectacle of yourself, Starscream." The tyrant turned away and made for the door of the Exotic Room. "Sit down before you bring further shame to our insignia."

Starscream's optics blazed so hot they stung—a pain almost as sharp as the gouge to his pride.

"Fuck you, Megatron!" He stomped across the room, snatching his cloak from the bouncer's station and yanking it over his head. He stormed out of the house, slamming the door behind him fiercely.

With the volatile presence gone, everyone shifted their attention to the balcony where they caught just a glimpse of the Slag Maker disappearing with his date behind the Exotic Room's door. What they didn't notice was how his careless smirk had dropped to a dismal frown the moment his stubbornly sparkless air commander had left the Inamorato


	36. Separation 1

A/N: Part one of two. Yeah, I know: You'd rather read more Megatron/Starscream or find out what's happening to Prowl. This update and the next will be this storyline, and this is mostly to buy time for my collabs to prepare more AWESOME for you.

Picks up after "Impulse Control"

****

Barricade sat on the floor right inside the door to the recharge, watching Blackout sleep. He saw the datapad next to Blackout's form on the berth, discarded, probably when recharge overtook him and he could no longer wait up for Barricade to return. He'd sat here for megacycles, since he'd gotten home from his little…'visit' with Onslaught. He felt too dirty, tainted, to do what he wanted to do, which was crawl up in the bed next to the copter and twine himself around one of the massive forearms. He wanted that so much, to feel the gentle vibration of Blackout's power core recharging, to feel the ebb and flow of Blackout's cooling ventilations against his back.

Onslaught was right—about two things. First that, frag, he did love the damn copter. He couldn't deny it, at least to himself anymore. If he didn't, he'd've kicked Blackout awake the klik he'd gotten home and demanded interfacing. And Blackout would have complied, happily.

Barricade was a jerk. Onslaught was right about that, too. But that wasn't the second thing he was really right about—the thing that bothered him. Being a jerk was just…being himself. But he felt a dry ache at the very thought of doing to Blackout, or even with Blackout, what he'd just done with Onslaught. He didn't want that from the copter. Didn't want the copter to have to deal with that, see that side of him. He wanted to be the sweet affectionate mech Blackout thought he was. He didn't want to be what he was. Most of all he didn't want to cheat on the copter. The fact that he had—and with his boss—stirred a sort of sick fear in him, mixed with self-loathing. No control, Barricade, none. Get thrown across a desk by your boss and what do you do? Interface with him. Yeah, that's perfectly sane.

He scrubbed his claws together, as if trying to get them clean.

Blackout sighed in his recharge, his hands shifting restlessly. Almost, Barricade thought, as if looking for Barricade. Naïve, innocent copter. How little he knew. Barricade wondered if Blackout was having dreams about missing him. He hoped not—how could he choose between keeping his unclean, undeserving frame away and giving Blackout bad dreams?

This, he thought, is what the sleep of the innocent looks like. Pure. Open. Serene. Frag, he wished he could sleep like that—flat on his back, splayed out, trusting. Instead of how he actually slept—curled in a hostile, protected ball, back up against something. Paranoid of attack, even in his sleep.

He remembered a few solars ago when he'd been injured, and had crawled up to wedge himself between Blackout's legs. Feeling safe and protected and…not alone. He hated being alone, being still, when his thoughts could settle and…he could reflect.

Hated it.

And it was the worst punishment he could think of to be doing it right now, forcing himself to be alone, to sit back and think over what he'd done, to deny himself comfort.

Frag, Blackout, he thought. He pushed himself to his feet, creeping noiselessly closer—the same rolling gait he'd used countless times to move soundlessly behind his target. I'm dangerous to you: you're dangerous to me. He felt along behind his audio mount, and tore out the locator beacon signal node.

Barricade bent over, and gently brushed his lips against the copter's supraorbital crest. Blackout sighed in his sleep at the touch. Be well, he thought, his spark almost burning with suppressed emotion. Be happy. Forget all about me.

He turned and, as stealthily as he had come, walked out, the door muttering shut behind him, calling him a coward.

***

Blackout was frantic. And he knew it was throwing him off at work. It was bad enough Barricade hadn't come home last night and he was worried sick about him, but now he was screwing up the only other thing he cared about—his job. So when Madam Arcee called him into the main office, he was shaking with fear. He was going to lose both of them in the same day.

"Sit down," Arcee said, gently, pointing one slim white finger at a chair behind him, as she perched herself daintily on the desk.

It took Blackout three tries to settle himself on the chair, his nervously twitching rotors getting in the way. "Sorry!" he said, his optics bright with embarrassment, "I'm sorry!"

Arcee waited until he was settled. "Something bothering you, Blackout?"

"No, ma'am," he said, drooping his head to study his hands.

"Blackout," she chided. "Are you lying to me?"

His head drooped lower. "Yes, ma'am."

"What's bothering you? You can tell me."

"It's…uh…it's Barricade."

"Barricade? He's not hurt is he?" Arcee thought worriedly back to the recent events, when Barricade was brought back injured. He'd received medical treatment here. If he was still hurt, there could be a liability issue. She might be able to get Ratchet to check him out. No, slag. He was gone on that mission to try to find Prowl. She missed him suddenly, terribly much.

Her musings were cut short by the copter's wail. "I don't know! I don't even know where he is!"

Oh, this sounded serious, but a bit more in Arcee's area of expertise. All of those advice columns she'd penned during the war had given her a lot of experience counseling woes of the spark. "Oh, honey," she said, her voice soothing. "Tell me what happened."

"I don't know!" The copter dropped his head in his hands, trying to cover shameful sobs. "He had a meeting with Onslaught last night and he never came home and I don't know and I know he'll just get mad if I worry but I tried to find him using the locator beacon and it's not working and I can't raise him on comm and I think he's DEAD!" A huge suck of breath.

Oh, is that all? Arcee thought to herself. Well, Barricade didn't do things by halves. "Why would you think he's dead? Maybe Onslaught just gave him a mission and he didn't have a chance to say goodbye before he left?"

Blackout shook his head, his rotors trembling with emotion. "I had a memory purge last night that he came to say goodbye and…and…he kissed me on the forehead!" One of his hands rubbed the center of his chevronned crest as if it could still feel this phantom kiss.

"So?" Arcee asked, reasonably. "What's so wrong about that?" It sounded almost sweet.

"He NEVER kisses me there!" The copter's voice quavered. "I know he's dead and he came to me in a vision!"

"No, no," Arcee said. "Look, why don't we see if Onslaught is here, or Vortex. We can ask them about the meeting, all right?" She winced—she was using her sparkling-teaching voice, but instead of getting riled, Blackout sniffled and nodded, his optics glistening.

"Okay," the copter said. "I'm sorry, Madam Arcee. I'm just really worried. And I don't want to lose my job." The olive finials of his facial crests began trembling.

"Oh, Blackout." Arcee's spark hurt for the big copter. "You won't lose your job, I promise." He looked up, a little hopeful. She continued. The poor thing really needed a bit of a boost right now. "Everyone here loves you. And you're one of us and we don't want you to be upset."

He nodded, as though that were an order. "Yes, ma'am," he said. He wiped his facial crests with the back of one large fist. The gesture struck Arcee as touchingly childlike.

"Now, why don't you go to the break room until you can get yourself together? Have a little snack? I'll go see if I can find Onslaught for you."

"Yes, ma'am." His obedience was so touching, Arcee thought. If only Ratchet would listen to her like this. She felt her own brow contract with a bit of worry—Barricade was missing for Blackout, and while she at least knew that Ratchet was on a mission, it didn't help her feel any better about it. She felt like a hypocrite telling Blackout not to worry. Of course you worried.

Blackout rose to his feet. He stood awkwardly by the door, as if wanting to ask her something.

"Yes?" she prompted.

"Madam Arcee, could…could you help pick the next thing for me to study? I don't know what I gotta study next." He waited for her nod, and then reached for his compartment, where he'd stowed the device. "I don't want Barricade to come back and find me stupid and stuff."

Arcee felt her own lip tremble. "Of course, Blackout," she managed to say. "We'll make sure you're ready for his quizzes."

The copter's shy, worried smile broke her spark. No, they'd find him. First Prowl, now Barricade. It was too much. As if fate had it in for Inamorato.

***

Vortex frowned as the pink and white Autobot left him and went back to mech (or femme, he guessed) the bar. He tapped his comm.

Onslaught's voice, always sounding slightly impatient. "On."

"Barricade. Last night. You didn't send him on a mission." Onslaught hated being asked questions when he was busy. And while it was hard to tell if he were busy, Vortex had learned always to err on the side of 'busy as flaming slag'.

"No. Reason you're suddenly so interested in yesterday's schedule." He wasn't much for asking them, either. He must not be that busy.

"The Autobot madam was asking about him. Apparently he's gone missing."

"Arcee—why does she care?" Only sarcasm saved that from being a question.

Vortex answered it anyway. "She doesn't." He looked up just as Blackout lumbered into the room, shooting a grateful look at Arcee. "I think she's handling Blackout."

A contemplative grunt. "Comm freq."

"Disabled."

Another grunt followed by a pause. "Locator beacon's disabled, too."

"Dead?"

"Don't think it's likely. Do you?"

No. Barricade wasn't the suicidal type. If he ever did do himself in, Vortex was pretty sure there'd be a large body count to keep him company. And…, "he seems to be able to handle himself. If he'd gotten in real trouble, he'd've activated his distress."

"You have a lot of faith in him," Onslaught said, dryly.

No, Vortex thought. YOU have faith in him. I just know better than to question it. "He's a survivor."

A muffled curse. "Likely places to start a search." Vortex noted that Onslaught wasted no time asking why he thought Barricade might have disappeared. Guilty, Onslaught? he thought.

"Last investigation had him in Iacon. Hunting down that Backslash character."

"The one who met with an unfortunate accident."

An unfortunate accident they both knew was called 'threatening Barricade's copter.' "Do we trace that neighborhood or that lead?"

"Lead's more important."

Huh, Vortex thought. Not to finding Barricade. Not if Barricade was going underground. Still, they did have limited resources and…Onslaught probably guessed that Barricade's disappearance would somehow show up in more bodies of mechs who had dared to threaten Blackout. He made a mental note to be nice to the copter. "I can run a few…unofficial checks with his old team. Off duty, of course."

He could hear the smirk. "Why, Vortex. Didn't know you cared."

Vortex snorted. "Just want my turn with him, that's all."

"Maybe I'm possessive."

Vortex choked over his reply. He'd been about to make some retort-in-kind about Moonracer. Which would blow the whole thing. And that made him paranoid that the comment was a set-up. "All right," he recovered, "maybe I just want to watch again." That sounded…reasonably like him, he hoped. Moonracer would kill him if he screwed it up. She'd been hinting for weeks that she wouldn't mind a second round.

A half-disbelieving snort, but Onslaught didn't follow up with anything suspicious, only a "You know what you're doing." Which was carte-blanche permission. Vortex looked over at Blackout, whose optics kept drifting to the door, lit with hope, as if expecting Barricade to stroll in. Slag. Copter didn't deserve a jerk like Barricade. He didn't know why he was sticking his aft into this one, but he was. Like the damn copter gave off some kind of aura of altruism. He made a log-note that Blackout was a decidedly bad influence.

***

Barricade rubbed at one his upper arms. Hog did good work, but this had been a rush job, and the strip down before the repaint had been a little rough. No disrespect to Hog, though. It just hurt right now. And it deserved to. Barricade had bigger issues than an itch, though. He didn't even know HOW to feel. Mad at himself. Mad at Onslaught. Ugly and dark and dirty. He could kill for Blackout, no problem. It was…all this other stuff that came with it that he wished he could get rid of.

And he had started it. He just wanted Blackout safe. And to be honest, all this 'caring about someone NOT named Barricade' was a unique and scary occurrence for him.

What was he even doing? Hiding, yeah. But also…hoping he could do something to straighten everything out: himself on the inside. He couldn't go back, couldn't face Blackout or himself, until he'd finally done something big. Something they could all look on and respect. Right now…he couldn't trust himself around Blackout. Or anyone.

So he rolled out of Kaon, almost desperate enough to ask for the hand of Primus to guide him. As if Primus ever dealt with such twisted slag as Barricade.

He'd been in Hog's shop almost an entire solar. Which had given him a pretty good idea of exactly how 'legitimate' Hog's business…wasn't. Still, not his problem. Hog was adjusting after the war way the slag better than Barricade was, so, Barricade better shut the frag up. But Hog knew Barricade would keep his secrets, because he'd be keeping pretty slaggin' secret the fact that he saw Barricade. Mutuality of mistrust. What Barricade knew best. The only thing he trusted was self-interest. Which was probably why Blackout freaked him out so much.

He'd told Hog he was heading back to Kaon center. Which meant, of course, he was heading…the exact opposite direction. After winding a circuitous path around Kaon's slummier outlying areas, he zipped around the cloverleaf onto the main road to Iacon, the rising sun cutting the road in front of him into pink and black patterns. Blackout loved sunrises, he remembered, suddenly. Had woken Barricade up more than once, on various planets, on ships, in orbiting stations, to watch the play of solar light over things. "Made it like everything was new again," Blackout had said. "Fresh start." Barricade had sneered it off as the usual upbeat pseudo-philosophy that Blackout liked. Now…he desperately wished it were true.

On the mission: he didn't have a mission. But he made one up for himself, simply because having no direction, no aim, was the worst thing he'd ever experienced. He needed to be pointed at something or else he'd explode. Onslaught knew that, and though he hated that Onslaught knew, he knew he could trust the Combaticon to keep him pointed at something that deserved his darker attention. But right now…he didn't trust Onslaught either. So he had to call his own mission. And that left…Slingslot. Or whatever. Backslash had left traces. And with a change of paintjob, Barricade was pretty sure he could get some leverage there. If he could bring in that mech, maybe, MAYBE he could hold his head up again. Maybe things would fall into place. Maybe he'd deserve something good to happen for once. Maybe he'd NOT, for a change, fuck everything up. Two fouled investigations and now…he'd cheated on Blackout. No excuse possible.

Iacon in darkness looked like any of a hundred cities Barricade had run during the war. This was no different. This…for better or worse—was his element. He jetted to the offramp, taking him to the run down neighborhood where he'd tracked down Backslash.

**

Vortex comm'd Onslaught from outside of Ground Hog's…interesting establishment.

"Update," Onslaught said, briskly.

"He was here."

"Verbal confirmation?"

"The opposite. Absolute, flat out denial. Alleges he hasn't seen Barricade since the end of the War."

"Flat lie."

"Yeah." Well, when he could turn the music down enough to pretend to listen to Vortex's questions. Vortex always loved the 'I'm too busy to answer your official military investigation' ploy. Because, yeah, t hat wasn't suspicious.

"Next lead."

"Barricade's too smart to have left…in the direction of where he headed. But we can presume he picked up some extra equipment and maybe some physical mod, while he was here. Going to check his other former associates."

"Fine. Uh," And here Onslaught's commanding tone broke down a bit, "I'll be off-comm for the next few megas. An important meeting."

Vortex was glad this was only an audio comm—he wasn't able to keep the smirk from his face. Right. Important meeting. With Moonracer. The only thing that kept a pang of jealousy from his processor was that Moonracer had promised to make vids of the whole thing. Oh, dear Primus. On so many levels.

"Right. Might queue a message if I find anything."

"That would be adequate." Onslaught cut the line. Vortex smirked. Oh, Onslaught. Vortex's glee over Onslaught's stiff clumsiness fed his excitement. Barricade was missing and that was a mission. The first real mission since the war's end. He'd forgotten how it felt to have something to do that was worth doing. The mental game. The guessing, the questioning, the moving pieces around trying to make them fit. When he finally found Barricade, he would have to thank him for reminding him what it felt like to be useful. To be alive.

***

Barricade spent the day skulking around. He'd had an uneasy snooze in a parking lot. While he was fairly certain that Ground Hog's forgery would bear all but Elite Guard inspection, he'd rather live in ambiguity about that for a bit longer. He'd had some worry at Ground Hog's shop: he'd kept this identity—his only Neutral—going pretty well during the war, but after…like everything else, he'd let it slip. Still, maybe it would just be chalked up to generalized upheaval. A lot of mechs, he told himself, not just him, were more or less lost at the end of the war. Drifting.

Dusk fell, finally, and the mechs he was interested in dragged themselves out of whatever hideyholes they had. He still had flashsnaps of the ones who had assaulted them. It would have been easier to tap Vortex to see if he'd gotten a match on a (probably hacked) Autobot database, but…a good operative, Barricade knew, could operate without the ease and convenience of databases. He'd work it out.

He watched a few likely dirtballs stroll into a grimy pub. 'New Hope,' the neon sign announced, but…the place looked like it had given up on both the hope and the new ages ago. And it was ironic that dead end dirtballs would frequent a place as…given up on as this.

He transformed and walked in after them. Such an old, such a cliché set-up he was using. But success rate overrode his desire for originality.

He strolled over to the bar and while the bartender was getting him some completely vile, clouded over low-grade, he pulled a flashsnap flimsy from his storage, an Intel picture of Backslash. He flipped it in front of the bartender, pitching his voice just a little too loud. "Ever seen this mech?"

A quick glance down at the flimsy. Barricade watched the optics react. Yeah, he'd definitely seen Backslash. Plenty. "Who wants to know?" the bartender retorted.

"Mech who's paying me," Barricade answered with a shrug.

"Who's paying you?"

Barricade allowed a smirk to cross his face. "He paid extra for confidentiality."

A glimmer of…something from the bartender. Dislike, but a respectful one. "Haven't seen him for a while." A nod at the flimsy. Barricade noted a few of the other mechs taking an interest.

"He say anything about where he might go?" Pretend like it's an actual inquiry. You don't 'know' he's dead. You know, other than the fact that you killed him.

A shake of the head, the bartender's large audios almost whistling against the air. "Not really my best friend, you know. Just…was here and then not here." Interesting. Either the bartender didn't know Backslash was dead, or he didn't want this new investigator to know.

Barricade's turn to nod. "Pretty regular customer before then?"

"Pretty regular. Not enough to be able to tell you when he stopped showing up though." Ah, cutting off the next question. Barricade hid his grin. This bartender has been questioned before. Barricade didn't mind having his inquiry shut down. The bartender was a prop to the real questioning. Time to move this along to that point, though. "Any of his known associates 'round tonight?" He saw the bartender's optics glint at the lingo, 'known associates.'

The bartender made a show of looking around the dim interior. "Not that I can recognize." Barricade nodded. Making a show of protecting his customers. Had to be done.

"Right. Well, let me know if he shows up. " Barricade flipped a call-code disk onto the counter. "Ask for Stockade."

"Never heard of you." Meant to be a put down.

Barricade couldn't resist the grin and the cheesy line. "Not supposed to."


	37. Separation 2

A/N: Second half!

****

"You," Onslaught murmured, "are going to wear me out, mystery lady." He heard her soft laugh over his loud, deep exvents.

"That's the general idea." She dropped her weight on his chassis, his spike still inside her. Onslaught let one hand come up over her body, stroking down the rounded shapes of her armor. So unlike his big boxy plates. So unlike Vortex's cluttered back kibble. So…unlike Barricade.

He felt her move, could feel her face close to his. He tipped his chin up for a kiss.

"You sure you've offlined your optics?" she asked, suspiciously.

"Word of honor." He had. "Just get used to sensing EMF in close combat."

"Frag that's hot, baby," she said, ducking her mouth onto his, her glossa eager and insistent and yet somehow, still, delicate. One of her feet trailed down his inner thigh, sending late ripples of pleasure through his frame.

She broke the kiss, gently, stroking the side of his face. He gave a half-smile, tight. "Any fairness in the world," he said, "I'd ask you to offline optics."

"Why, because of this?" He felt her dainty fingers stroke along the bad weld of his damaged facial plates. The ones that pulled his mouth askew. "Part of who you are, baby." He felt her dip her face in again, her warm glossa trailing the line.

He tipped his face into hers, their mouths brushing briefly. "I wish I knew who you were," he lied. Truth: he wished she'd be open about it. He was dying to see her, to tell her how beautiful she was, to watch her ecstasies. It was an offer.

"No way," she said. "Have to preserve the mystery." Her fingers drifted across his face. "Those are new."

What? Oh. Right. Where Barricade had gotten him with his facial spines. "Just haven't had a chance to get them detailed off."

"Don't they hurt?"

He shook his head. "Get used to it." He didn't want her to ask any more about how he'd gotten them. Didn't really want to consider what part he might have played in Barricade's sudden disappearance. He caught his arms around her, rolling on top of her. "Now, something you need to get used to," he said, before kissing her throat, and then a line down her chassis between her parted thighs….

***

That had been a marginally profitable night, Barricade thought. He'd settled with his low grade in some dark corner by the maintenance fac, and sure enough, one or two mechs had made the old lie about a little drainage and had paused to exchange a few words with 'Stockade'. From them he'd heard that Backslash was dead, murdered, and they had no idea how or why.

Not, it seemed, that they thought he was such a nice mech that no one would ever do such a thing to him. More like…they thought he was a badaft whom no one would be dumb enough to mess with.

Yeah? Till he was dumb enough to mess with Blackout. But Barricade/Stockade nodded and pretended to be shocked/surprised. And one of them had taken in his red and grey paint job, complete with artistic wear and scratches (Hog had enjoyed a little too much some of the 'texturizing' that involved applying a belt sander to Barricade's armor), and sat down in the corner next to him.

"You the one lookin' for Backslash?"

"He's dead, I hear."

"Yeah. That's the word. And no one's seen him."

"Chance he's run off somewhere?" Time to bait this trap a bit more. "He run into some trouble…or some cash?" Throw out the possibility that a newly-rich Backslash might have bolted with the bounty.

The mech shook his head, mouth tight. "No cash. He had some, but 'pparently that deal went bad. Real bad."

"Like…want him dead bad or just cut off the cash faucet bad?" One thing about playing an investigator is you didn't have to mask the nosy, pointed questions.

"Pretty sure they did the second. Not sure they'd do the first, though."

"You never know," Barricade said. "Creds are creds, but if a mech's pride gets involved…."

"True, true," said the strange mech. A Neut, Barricade noted. Just like he allegedly was. "Dunno. He didn't seem the type."

Barricade masked his triumphant smirk behind the rim of the lowest low-grade in the galaxy. The slag Roller Force was sucking down in that dive in Kaon was better than this. But the Neut had just cut a 'they' down to a 'he'. "You never can tell," he said, blandly.

"Nah, with this mech, you could. All hot air. An air frame, first of all. You know how they are."

Barricade bristled. Ahem. Blackout was an airframe. "They're not all bad," he said, tightly.

"Maybe where you're from," the stranger said, suddenly suspicious. "But 'round Iacon, the aerials are all jerks. Or Decepticons." As if they meant the same thing. Barricade could feel his brand almost burning under the masking gesso Hog had placed over it.

Time to lay a little on the line here. Enough slaggin' around. "This aerial wouldn't be a guy named Slingslot, would it?"

"Slingshot," the mech shot back, a little supercilious. As if Barricade were stupid. Barricade shrugged. He didn't care what Anonymous Neut thought of Stockade anyway. Besides, better to be thought a fool…and be able to get within backstabbing range. Or however that saying went.

"Any idea where I can find him? You know, just to hear his side of the story." He flashed an openly dangerous grin. After last time, when he'd gotten kidnapped by Thundercracker, he'd decided to operate under the assumption that every word he said was getting reported straight back to his target. And he wanted Slingshot scared. Scared mechs made mistakes.

The mech shrugged a little too casually. "Used to come here or over at Bald Pavement to meet up with u—him." Barricade pretended to be studying the scum floating on the top of his low grade, so the mech thought he covered his little pronoun slip. "Not any more, though."

"So…he'd just waltz in here and hand him money. No advance notice or anything? No way to contact him if it was off?" Nonsense questions. Just enough credulity to make himself seem stupid. Slingshot was going to underestimate his opponent, if Barricade had anything to say about it.

"No idea," the mech shook his head, trying to look stupider than floor tile. Yeah, right. Well, Barricade knew who HE was following home tonight, just enough to tap his comm.

***

"They are vorking on it, Blackout," Madam General Strika's voice rumbled from her chassis. "Ve got him back bevore, ve can again."

Blackout nodded, miserably. "Sorry if it's messing up my job."

Strika shook her head, her jewelry clattering against her audio pickups. "Iz not that, Blackout. Ve vorry about you." She pointedly pushed the plate of leftover energon sticks toward the copter. Arcee had warned her that Blackout was terrified of being fired.

"I'm fine," Blackout said, listlessly. "Barricade's the one who's missing."

"Blackout," Strika put a bit more command in her tone. "Just like during var. Ve have our missions, and someone else has theirs. Onzlaught vill find him. He has given his vord. As a soldier, you must do your part and trust him to do his mission." Even though, she thought, in a real war, missions didn't involve retrieving another mech's boyfriend.

"Yes, ma'am," Blackout said. His facial crests stiffened with resolve. "I'm a good soldier, General Strika." A bid for reassurance. Yes.

"One of the best, Blackout." She pushed the plate over again. "I haff to order you to eat?" she prompted.

***

"He's in Iacon," Vortex said, slapping the datapad on the desk in frustration. "Got a repaint from his old buddy, and headed to Iacon."

"Confirmation."

"Roller Force. Other teammate, but without a convenient mutual secret to hide. Was coming in that night to 'Hog's to try to borrow some creds. Says Barricade's engine harmonics are unmistakable."

"He's going after the lead." A hint of triumph. What Onslaught had predicted.

"Yes. Problem is, we haven't been able to find this guy either. We know he's an Autobot, and that part's legit—it's not just a magnet or something—but wherever he's hiding, we're out of luck."

"Surveillance."

"Impossible with the current tensions. Sentinel Magnus has cyberbees in his undershorts about the last time we had to go in and rescue Barricade."

Onslaught grunted. Barricade was the biggest pain in the aft. And also, if he were going after Slingshot, and got anything, his best agent.

"And before you think it," Vortex added, "I'm banned from any Autobot territory. Unless you have a large expense account labeled, 'Vortex, bail' that I don't know about."

"Great." Onslaught slapped his palms on the desk. "So, what do we do?"

Uh oh. A question. Always a bad sign.

"What we do? We ready an extraction team." Frag it. "I'll go."

"Bail?"

"Hit and run, I'll be fine," Vortex said, confidently. "I'm the fastest you've got right now."

"Real reason?" Onslaught's visor was steady on Vortex's face.

"Most fun we'll have had since the end of the war," Vortex admitted.

"You miss it."

"Don't you?"

***

Barricade barely had to follow the Neut before the stupid mech ducked into what he thought was a nice, safe alley. Barricade simply continued down the block, his borrowed-from-Hog comm array primed for any new signal. Right. Origination. Signal bounce. Wait. He rolled to a stop around a corner as soon as he got a ping from a signal boost. Could follow that just as easily. Radio waves didn't move Line of Sight, stupid Neut slagger, he thought.

With better equipment, he could have captured the conversation, known exactly what was going down. But even so, he got a clear freq read on Slingshot, and a precise directional. As long as the Autobot was broadcasting, Barricade could find him.

Aaaaaaand jinx. The line died, from Slingshot's end. Well, Barricade had rather figured Slingshot to be smarter than Nameless Neut back there. Then again, almost hard not to be. Well, slag it, you have a location, he told himself, go!

***

Ooooookay, Barricade thought, that could have gone a little better. Like…it could have gone at all.

He clutched the data input rods to his chassis, ducking down behind the desk as another explosion ripped through the room that had apparently been Slingshot's hideout. It hadn't been that hard to figure which of the apartment cubes belonged to him—only three had balcony launch pads—something Blackout had secretly wanted when they got their own cube. They couldn't afford it, of course, and Blackout never complained about walking up three flights of stairs to the public rooftop helipad, but Barricade knew Blackout wanted one. And if Barricade wasn't such a fuck-up maybe they'd be able to afford one.

Slingshot had bailed, most likely spooked by his heads-up call, which didn't really bother Barricade—he wasn't much in the heavily-armed-confrontation camp. And Slingshot's absence had left the entire cube rife for rifling.

Barricade knew his way around home data systems. Frag, he could hack anything given enough time. And he had been paranoid enough for long enough that he never worked with his face directly to the monitor.

So when the first blast had gone off, it had peppered his left fairings, shredding his shoulder tire. Which was not fun, but it wasn't life threatening.

The second and third explosions, though, meant a little more like business. He scuttled on his knee plates for the door to the launch pad. If Slingshot had heard the mech asking too many questions was a grounder, he probably wouldn't bother to booby trap the launch pad, figuring there'd be no way down.

And there was no way down. Barricade squatted against a partition wall, tucking the input rods into his storage. At least they'd be safe. Some disturbing info there, from what he'd seen, but the rest would have to wait for Crypto…and a distinct LACK of life-threatening explosions. And…if he ever managed to get these back. Frag. Always glitch in the end game, he berated himself. This was why he needed someone. Why he needed a commander. A team.

This was why he needed Blackout.

Instead, this was what he got: Vortex, coming in low out of the sky, aiming directly for him, swooping down to catch him as a fourth explosion scattered plasglass from the door across the launch pad.

***

Onslaught flicked the last input rod back onto the table. "Financing from Vos."

"Yeah." Barricade was seated across the desk—THAT desk—as Onslaught ran through his finds.

"He's alerted now."

"Not going to change the past." Sure, Slingshot might run and divest himself of everything, but…the more he shed, the more intel lying around to be picked up.

"Anything else?"

Barricade considered. Yeah, he didn't want to tell Onslaught this part, but it would come out in cryptoanalysis and he'd look awfully suspicious when it did. And he'd already used up his 'deliberately frag up report' card. "Motorhead's involved somehow."

Onslaught nodded, prompting for more. Barricade shrugged.

"That's all I got before the first rig blew." His injured tire had been removed, waiting for a replacement. The rim ached. He felt Vortex standing behind him, neutral, as if awaiting orders. Much different from the ride home, when Vortex had practically shrieked with glee, swooping through the skyline, giggling to Barricade that he had found him simply by following the sounds of explosions. "I want to handle him myself." There was a lot of bad blood between he and Motorhead. Something else Barricade had fragged up. Something else he had to fix.

"We'll see," Onslaught said, neutrally. He tapped an input rod on the table several times, as if building up energy to get the next words out of his vocalizer. "Good work."

Barricade blinked in surprise. Praise? That meant…the next step would be a backhand blow. He tried to brace himself, aware of Vortex inching up behind him.

"Next mission," Onslaught said. "Even tougher than this one: Go home to your copter."

Barricade bolted from the chair—or tried to. Vortex's hands grabbed his shoulders and slammed him back down. "You…no way! You can't order me to do that!"

The visor tilted, amused. "I just did, Barricade. Would you like a threat to go along with it?"

"I'd like to hear it," Vortex said, amused. Onslaught shot him a chiding glance.

"You run my job, fine," Barricade muttered, "But you have no business in my slaggin' private life."

"It becomes my business when I have to field calls every megacycle from General Strika." Not a shred of humor in the voice. And the way he worded it, oh the military rank stuff still mattered. A mere commander couldn't refuse a call from a general. "Apparently she's a little protective of Blackout."

Yeah, who wasn't? Would be nice if, for a change, someone was protective of Barricade. Well…OTHER than the copter. "You cannot be serious."

"Do I look like I'm joking, Barricade?" Onslaught propped both elbows on the desk, meeting Barricade's gaze levelly. Nope. Not joking. "And if you don't agree, right now, to follow orders, I'm going to send Vortex with you. You can apologize in private, or you can have Vortex vid it for me. Your choice." Another of those amazing non-choices these two were so fond of. Which would you like, Barricade? Suck or suck with suck-gravy? Would you like your suck raw or cooked? On the rocks or straight up. Slag. All these metaphors were making him realize how long it had been since he'd eaten. Or slept.

"Fine," he said, with as much ill grace as he could.

"I could come with you anyway," Vortex gibed. "Make sure you don't get lost."

"No," Onslaught said. "We do trust him. But he will reinstall his locator AND turn on his comm before he leaves."

"Hate you," Barricade muttered. Vortex's hands tightened on his shoulders.

"You always say that," Onslaught retorted. "Yet you always keep coming back."

"Don't give me much choice!" Barricade tried to swipe out of the chair. Vortex grabbed him by the chassis, and hauled him away. Onslaught looked…amused.

"Need it again so soon?" Vortex purred. Barricade became suddenly aware of Vortex's larger frame holding him, his door wings flattened against the heavier mech's chassis, Vortex's battlemask brushing his audio. Just a little…bit…creepy. He sagged.

Onslaught stiffened in frustration, and it took both of the other mechs a klik to figure out it wasn't at them, but at comm. He spoke. "Yes, General Strika…. I have him right here. Yes, general…. Standard post-operation debrief….. No, no serious injuries." He looked wistful. "Yes, general. I'll be sure to tell him that." He clicked off, his visor an unreadable line of red. "General Strika says hi."

Yeah. I'll bet, Barricade thought, squirming his way, finally, out of Vortex's grasp.

"She wants to remind you what a valuable asset Blackout is."

Barricade writhed. Right. Anyone else want to jump in on the Implied Threat to Barricade Train? "Don't know why you all care so much about the fraggin' copter."

Onslaught tipped his head back, leaning against the back of the chair. "Because you do."

"What if he's bailed?" Barricade felt a tremor of fear. It would be for the best for Blackout if he'd given up on Barricade. Would be for the best, he repeated. He still…desperately…didn't want it.

"Then your next mission is to find him, apologize, and take whatever he dishes out."

Barricade nodded, grimly. That was only fair. If the copter were smart, he'd've…done a hundred things: changed the locks, moved out, set Barricade's stuff on fire in the middle of the courtyard, burned Barricade in effigy…the list could go on. Barricade never found himself praying harder that the copter wasn't that smart.

***

Barricade coded the door to the cube, without daring to breathe. If Blackout had any sense at all, he'd've changed the door codes. Which would tell Barricade all he really needed to know. All he deserved: that he had fragged up, terminally, and the copter had moved on to better things.

The door whooshed open into the darkness. Well, maybe Blackout had moved out, Barricade thought. But no…there was their repair-cradle couch, and the vidscreen—surely he would have taken those. No, actually, maybe Blackout was so guilty he'd've left them for Barricade. Blackout was prone to guilt.

Barricade didn't want them. He wanted Blackout. He wanted—always wanting what he couldn't have—the sweet, innocent copter. Hoping against any sort of sense, he slipped into the recharge room.

Blackout lay on his back, the datapad blinking in standby, held limply in one hand. Sleeping the sleep of the innocent. Frag, Barricade thought. Should just turn around and leave. But…I want him so much. Not just that way, either.

He approached the berth, taking the datapad from the numb fingers and sticking its magnets against the berth's side. He sucked in a long breath and then slowly, slowly, lay down on the berth, right in the space Blackout had always left for him, between his arm and his body. He tentatively curled his arms around Blackout's massive upper arm, lowering his cheek gently onto the shoulder armor. No response, not even a ripple of disturbed ventilation. Barricade sighed, softly, inching one leg to wrap around the copter's wrist, carefully wiggling his back into Blackout's side.

Comfort. Safety. Peace. They seemed to radiate from Blackout's body, even while asleep, and Barricade could already feel the tension bleeding from him, as if flaking off like bad wax. He let his optics drift shut, trying to memorize the feel of the strong arm in his grasp, the smell of Blackout's oiled and waxed joints, the familiar hum of the EM field.

Blackout shifted, suddenly, rolling onto that side, his other arm clutching Barricade tightly against him, his leg thrown over Barricade's hip, his mouth in a gentle long kiss on the back of Barricade's helm. Blackout's arm folded over him: not a cage, not a trap. An acceptance. Belonging. Barricade knew, come morning, there would be apologies and recriminations and questions he did not want to answer, and worst, emotions he did not want to face. But for now, but for right now, in Blackout's embrace, he had all that he wanted.


	38. Morning After Separation Epilogue

A/N: Both of my cowriters are hard at work on continuing, you know, the other plots (let's rescue Prowl!!!) so to tide you over and remind you we're still here...me again. V__V

Sort of an epilogue to Separation.

Barricade popped his optics open a few cycles before Blackout's chrono alarm usually went off. Time to face consequences, he thought. The thought did not go down well on his empty fuel tank or his too-full conscience. And it suddenly seemed like a total creep thing to do to crawl up on Blackout while he was recharging like this. Just because you CAN do something, Barricade, doesn't mean you should. And just because you wanted to….

Words to fraggin' live by.

Before he could even start thinking what to do, though, the copter's arms tightened around him, smooshing his doorwings against the broad chassis.

"You're back!" Blackout's voice rumbled against his back kibble.

Barricade felt a firm kiss on his helm. He waited for the inevitable questions or blame. Or at least guilt. Frag, he was so primed for a guilt trip he had his luggage all packed and a tip for the skycap. He was eight different flavors of dirtbag and the copter deserved something much…better tasting.

Huh, he should stop with these metaphors when he just woke up. Not at the top of his verbal game.

He waited some more, stiff. Come on, copter. Bring it. I'm ready. Just…hit me already.

"So, what do you want to do today?" Blackout asked.

Barricade blinked. Wow. Okay. The copter was just pulling his punch. Waiting for the right moment. Play along. "I, uhhh, have no plans."

"Well," Blackout said, leaning back, pulling at one of Barricade's shoulders so they could face each other, though he kept his one arm curved protectively around the smaller mech, "I don't gotta work tonight so we can do just about anything." He leaned over and pecked at one of Barricade's shoulder tires. "Unless Onslaught needs you."

Barricade winced. Yeah, like that wasn't deliberate. "Onslaught can go frag himself!"

Blackout drew back at the vehemence in Barricade's voice. Very, very cautiously he asked, "You…okay, Barricade?"

No of COURSE I'm not okay! Barricade wanted to yell. No. Not fair. You're the jerk here. Do NOT, for once, take it out on someone else. Least of all Blackout. "Yeah," he said, tightly. "Fine."

"Kinda hot, too," Blackout teased, his hand coming back over to stroke down Barricade's body. Barricade squirmed in spite of himself. Frag but that copter could get his engines going. "Missed you," Blackout said, then cut himself short. As if that were too far.

Barricade ground his hands together. "Look, I—"

"No, you don't gotta tell me anything. I understand. It's cool." Blackout leaned over to plant a warm kiss on his mouth, effectively stifling further argument.

"Mmmph!" Barricade tried anyway, then gave up. Why protest when you're getting a face full of copter? He let himself sink into it, the copter's mouth warm and insistent on his, pushing, but not too hard, the glossa flirting with his. His entire interface system blazed on, almost audibly. Fraggin' hot copter distracting him from his misery with his coptery hotness.

Blackout broke the kiss, gently, grinning down at him. His olive facial plates quivered with emotion. Trying not to say something too tacky. He didn't want to push Barricade away; not when he'd just gotten back. His optics flicked over Barricade's frame, taking him in, memorizing him. His optics froze on a too-new tire. His trembling smile faded. "You got hurt!" he blurted.

Frag! Slaggin' observant copter! "Nothing major. I'm fine." He rotated the tire. "See? Everything's cool." He frowned, a ball of worry bobbing around in his tanks at the hurt look on Blackout's face. "Really," he said, lamely. "I'm…fine."

He could see the war playing out in Blackout's processor. Slaggin' easy-to-read copter. Torn between wanting to know, and afraid of offending Barricade with his worry. Barricade's spark ached.

Blackout leaned over, pressing his warm mouthplates gently over the too-new tire. "I'm sorry you got hurt," he said. Struggling, Barricade knew, to understand. To not ask what any decent reasonable mech would have already offered.

"Fraggin' Onslaught!" he blurted.

Blackout's facial crests went rigid. "Onslaught did this to you?" His optics lit with cold rage.

Barricade squirmed. An orbital cycle ago, he'd've gone with it. Let Onslaught take the blame. Not that the fraggin' Combaticon was Mr. Innocent. "No. Sorry. It was the mission." Which wasn't really a mission. Which I didn't need to go on. But I did anyway.

"Nobody," he said. "My own damn fault. Got sloppy." Slaggin' Slingshot and his slaggin' rigged-to-blow cube. And slaggin' observant Blackout. And slaggin' Onslaught. Everyone's fault. Except Barricade.

"Sloppy?" Blackout poked the tire, tracing along the mounting rim that was still pocked with shrapnel. "This looks like it coulda been bad."

"Yeah, well, it's not and I'm here and so what." His tone was truculent. Back off, copter. Don't want to talk about it. Not another bolo'd mission. Not…why I'd left.

"Oh. Okay. I just…I'm sorry," the copter hung his head, brushing his mouth apologetically over Barricade's chassis. "Sorry I worried. Just so glad you're back, though." He squeezed Barricade against him.

Uh yeah, something else I, uh…had to do. Barricade squirmed. If Blackout's optics had been any less worried, he might have been able to resist. "I just…uhhhh,...," he broke contact, dropping his optics to Blackout's chassis, hovering inches over his own. "I fragged Onslaught!" he blurted. His hands balled into useless fists.

"You…what?" Blackout's optics flew wide.

Barricade winced, keeping his optics shuttered for far longer than was necessary. "I…I fragged Onslaught. Or he did me. I don't even know." His voice got scratchy and thin. "I'm sorry." He forced himself to open his optics, to see the hurt on Blackout's face. It was everything he'd dreaded. He felt…something he'd never felt before, almost like an acid burn its way up his chassis from the inside. "I-I'm sorry," he repeated, dumbly. What the pit was this slaggin' awful feeling? Oh, right. Guilt. It sucked.

"W-why?"

Why do you think? Part of Barricade's cortex snapped. "I'm sorry because I…uhhh, didn't want to get you…you know…upset like this."

"No, I mean, why you do it? Do Onslaught?"

Barricade writhed. "Look, uh, do we really have to talk about it right now?"

Blackout frowned. Struggling. "No. Guess not." He looked miserably unhappy.

Barricade could practically hear him struggling for something else to talk about. Barricade sighed. "Look. I can't really explain it. And it's not like I wanted it to happen." Oh, hello there understatement. "He just started needling at me and I kind of lost my cool and…."

"And you ended up interfacing?" From anyone else it would sound cutting. The copter merely sounded confused. Yeah, those dots were pretty hard to connect.

"Yeah." Barricade shut all four of his optics. "Sounds ridiculous." He whimpered as Blackout shifted his weight, pushing off, sitting up. When he opened his optics, he saw Blackout sitting, hunched over, petting one of his rotors, his face scrunched with some really sad emotion. He rolled off the berth, curling around his misery. "Uhhh, I'll just go, all right?" It was the rotor stroking that got to him—a simple, sparklinglike gesture, that told Barricade more than any screaming rage or tears how much he'd hurt Blackout. Frag. Should have been killed by that explosion. Wouldn't have had to face this.

"Wh-what's he got I don't got?" Blackout asked, quietly enough that Barricade could pretend he didn't hear it.

Yeah. Barricade heard it. He paused. "Nothing. It's not him that's the problem. It's me."

"I don't understand," Blackout wailed. They struck Barricade as the saddest three words he had ever heard. Just a simple plea. Just the hardest question in the universe. From the copter who was so certain he was stupid.

"I don't either," Barricade said. He dropped back down onto the berth. "I…uhh…just sometimes need it kind of rough." There. He'd said it. Kind of. In the way he usually did: sort of glitching at the end. He studied his talons, embarrassed. Stupid Barricade. Ruined the best thing that ever happened to him because of his stupid violence glitch. Hurt Blackout, too, that was worse.

You suck, Barricade. Least you can do is look him in the face. See what you've done. Really. He turned, leaning around his shoulder kibble. Blackout's face was streaked with lens lubricant, one or two drops trailing down his facial crests, glittering in the light. Barricade burned with self-hatred. Blackout looked up. Wait for it, Barricade told himself. Let him yell at you, scream, punch you. Let him do it. Don't even THINK of fighting back.

"I-is that all?"

Barricade blinked.

"I mean, is that all? Just like…how he interfaces? Not because he's like…smarter than me?"

"Frag no!" The words burst from Barricade with a vehemence he didn't know he had.

"You sure?"

"Frag yes I'm sure!" Barricade said, hotly. "Want to punch him in the face on a regular basis."

He saw a tentative smile through the dripping lens lubricant.

"Look, Blackout. I…I'm just wrong. It's me that's the problem. And I don't know how to fix it." He wanted to throw his arms around Blackout. Which showed how glitched he was. Yeah, hurt the copter, then go rush to comfort him. That's sane. "Want me to leave?" he offered, quietly.

"No. Never." The copter's arm swung out possessively, and Barricade went 'oof' against the dark grey chassis. "Nothing's wrong with you. You're perfect."

You do not even know, Barricade thought, bitterly. "I, uhhh, kill mechs."

"So did I," the copter shrugged, metal plates moving all around Barricade. "War. Kinda happens like that and stuff."

"No, I mean, like…I killed them and I liked it. Like…'liked it' liked it." Oh, that was coherent. Marvelous. Maybe you should start a debate team or something for your next trick. Assassin, wordsmith, jerk. Awesome.

Another shrug, the metal sliding against Barricade's armor. "Yeah? I like _Seeker Cadets_."

Uhhhh, not the same, copter. Like, at all. Like….no one's dead. Barricade couldn't even figure out how to approach this one when Blackout shifted and Barricade suddenly found himself sprawled face down on the berth, one of Blackout's large hands pinning him between the doorwings. Uh. What?

"Like this?" Blackout's voice rumbled, over him. He tweaked one door.

Barricade's first instinct—to fight back—collided messily with his second instinct—don't hurt the copter. He more or less locked up. "What are you doing?" he managed to squeak into the berth.

The weight shifted, and he felt a chassis against his back kibble, and Blackout's voice in his audio. "This what you like?"

"I…," he winced as Blackout bit down onto his tire mount. Mixed signals of pleasure and pain, confusion and desire, raced from the contact point, straight to his interface systems. He whimpered as Blackout leaned further over, pushing his legs apart with one knee. "What are you doing?" he repeated.

"Anything Onslaught can do, I can do," Blackout said, with a firmness he didn't really feel. This feels weird, Blackout thought. But Barricade was worth being a little weirded out. And he could handle it. For Barricade. "Even more 'cause I can fly and stuff." He raked a hand down Barricade's side, skirting across his aft to the underside of his interface hatch. Barricade shivered. Blackout focused on Barricade's reaction, the helpless way Barricade squirmed, the aft sliding against his palm. He lightened the touch, brushing gently, lovingly, over the battered metal. Barricade sighed.

Torn? No, not Barricade. Frag. His interface systems were flashing green at him, as if waving to get his attention. But…he really didn't want Blackout to see this side of him. Really. Copter didn't deserve that. Blackout grabbed for a wrist tire, twisting it tentatively, experimentally. Barricade could feel the copter's optics, almost heavier than his weight, assessing his response. He felt like…a freak. "Don't want to hurt you," he gasped into the flat metal of the berth.

"I'm not that fragile, Barricade," Blackout said, softly. His voice was more than a little sad. "Been through a war and all." He could feel the strange arousal from Barricade. Something he'd never seen before. That made him sad. That Barricade had been…keeping this from him. Not like a secret or nothin', but something he didn't feel that Blackout could share. It…hurt. He didn't want to be shut out. He tightened his grip on the wrist, feeling the tire bulge around his talons.

Barricade felt his mouth quirk, almost against his will. Primus he didn't want this, but part of him did. That part that was Shadowblade, that reveled in pain, in violence. Wanted this. Wanted Blackout to hurt him. Oh, he wanted that too—wanted Blackout to take it out on him, all his rage and frustration and pain he MUST be feeling. Punish me. For my sins. For my self.

He spun into the copter's grip, letting his wrist get twisted around, his shoulder kibble coming to strike Blackout across the face. Goading, taunting, Shadowblade's grin. The copter flinched back from the expression on Barricade's face as much as the blow. Barricade froze, half on his side, staring at the dent he'd made. "Told you there was something wrong with me," he snapped, hoping the tone covered the panic and regret that were swarming all over him. Frag. Can't even apologize right.

"Nothin' wrong with you," Blackout said, ducking his head to wipe his cheek against his chassis. "You're Barricade. It's who you are." The honesty burned the air between them, along with what Blackout didn't have the courage to say. 'And I love you. All of you.' He pinned the arm between them, ducking in to kiss the back of Barricade's neck. "And I can do this if you need me to."

"Don't want you to have to," Barricade said, grinding his mouthplates together.

Blackout shrugged, the rotors trailing along the berth. "And I don't want you to feel you gotta go to Onslaught." He loved Barricade. He was terrified to say it, not just now, not right now, when Barricade was on the verge of falling away from him. But he would. He'd do anything for Barricade. The only mech who didn't make fun of him because he couldn't read. The only one who'd stood up for him. The only one who ever told him he was hot.

Barricade writhed. "Please? Come on. I don't want this." There was something like pain on his face, as if all of his desire that had tingled through him before had somehow changed, transmuted. Blackout released him instantly, awash with regret.

"Sorry," Blackout said. He hung over the smaller mech, arms limp, wanting desperately to hold Barricade, but afraid he'd offended. Their optics met for a long moment, each trembling in a lake of fear and vulnerability. Barricade reached up, tentatively, pulling the copter down onto him, wrapping his arms around the broad shoulders, his body shaking with emotion against the larger frame. Blackout scooped him against his chassis, feeling the smaller body curl around his bulk. "I don't wanna lose you," Blackout breathed. The body shuddered against him and he could feel the smaller talons digging under his armor, clutching against him.

"Don't want to be lost," Barricade said, his voice very, very small, his face pressed into the copter's armor.


	39. Dangerous Devotion

_A/N: I am falling pathetically to my knees and begging forgiveness for the amount of time it has taken me to update. I wish I had a good excuse but honestly, I let all my writing time get sucked into the tf_ic_prompts role play community over on Live Journal. *shrug* At least I stayed in the fandom? ...Yeah, like I said, not a good excuse. __ For those following "Starscream's Rebirth" over on my PG13 account, I apologize to you as well. The story isn't dead, just on hold as I get back into the twisted headspace of our dear seeker._

_Anyhoo, here's the next installment of Starscream/Blackarchnia drama, with a little intro to Prowl's rescue mission. It takes place directly after Starscream stormed out of Inamorato, shrieking colorfully at Megatron._

_Enjoy. ^_^  
_

* * *

**Dangerous Devotion** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

The bounty hunter and the black widow took turns in their display of uneasiness, one fidgeting one pacing, both worried sick about their loves. Blackarachnia, by request of Starscream, had returned to Parlour Trix with full intent to wait up for him, even though he said not to. She couldn't help but worry. Nothing good ever came from a one-on-on encounter between him and Megatron.

Lockdown vented a deep sigh, attempting to calm his spark. He leaned back against the counter and watched as the spider continued to pace nervously.

"Why the spark did ya bring Starscream to the brothel?" He inquired with a hint of irritation. "Ya shoulda known there'd be trouble waitin' fer him there. Fragger can't take two steps without findin' trouble."

"I didn't think _Megatron_ would be there!" She dropped her hands to sides and huffed up to the hunter. "Since when does he _pay_ for interfacing? I thought the big jerk just had it delivered to his VIP room." She stomped her stiletto, her fists balling and lips pinching into an ugly scowl.

Lockdown shrugged, setting aside his own worry for the moment to attend to hers. "Coulda just been a spontaneous onset a friskiness," he tugged her into his broad chest by her waist, crooked smile pushing his tattoos askew. "Happens t'the best of us."

She relaxed slightly at the familiar, comforting hold, her gaze dropping to the green stripes surrounding a blacked-out symbol , her claws tracing the perfectly painting details. "But why did it have to happen tonight of all nights? I only just got him back. I can't lose him again." She sighed, dimming her optics and allowing the strong purple hand to trace over her cheek. "I'm…I'm sorry, I know you're just as worried about Prowl, I shouldn't be going on so—"

He silenced her with a firm finger to her lips, a single brow rising as he leaned in for a kiss. Her faceplates flushed as she accepted the contact, the hunter's dependable warmth easing her spark. "What's the story with," she broke the kiss with a whisper, "Prowl's rescue party?"

"Gotta go rogue." He paused for a moment, taking in a deep intake to keep his bitterness at bay. "EG backed out."

"Ughh! That's just soo…" she drove in her frustration with another stiletto stomp, "typical of Sentinel."

"Probably better this way," the hunter reasoned. "EG'd need a warrant to bust in on Oilslick. I don't."

"Are you going alone?" she asked with concern.

"Nah, joinin' with bot's from Prowl's crew. Yer ex, the doc. "His optics twitched at the thought of teaming up with Ratchet. He's not looking forward to that meeting one bit. Not after their last encounter. "And one more. Guardsmech. Hiphop or Techno or—"

"I think you mean Jazz?" she chuckled.

"Yeah, that's the one. Actually expectin' to hear from them shortly."

Before the spider could inquire more about the operation, their moment was interrupted by some painfully shrill vocals.

"Oh PIT no!"

The outburst was followed by a null ray blast which grazed Lockdown's spiked shoulder then took out a shelf of artificial spikes behind them.

"Starscream!" The femme spun around, her relief at hearing his voice was quickly overcome by the shock of his attack. "Wait, no!"

She was suddenly shoved aside as a chainsaw roared out of her confidant's arm and went flailing toward the seeker, its wielder roaring nearly as loud.

"Lockdown no!" She reached out futilely, unable to get closer for fear of losing a stinger to the crude, noisy weapon.

The mechs struggled in a fitful dance, snarling, punching and kicking, taking out display shelves and making an all-out Cybersterone -driven ruckus. Starscream managed to dodge most passes of the chainsaw but a quick backlash, pulled from the dusty catacombs of the hunter's ninja training caught the seeker off guard and put his wing in contact with the raging weapon. He shrieked in heated agony but twisted agilely away and began powering his null rays to maximum blast.

Blackarachnia knew that sound too well and decided on the spot her intervention was overdue. She waited for the perfect moment when Starscream's back was to her and Lockdown's choice weapon was at its farthest point away then lunged into the fray, impaling the seeker with her stingers and sending him collapsing to the floor unconscious.

Lockdown withdrew his weapon, surprised and impressed by her actions. "Nice move, Trix! Didn't think ya had it in—"

"Null rays can stun right?" She interrupted fiercely as a pair of sleek cannons materialized on her arms.

"Yeah," the hunter replied questionably. "Why do ya askAAAHHH!" He collapsed to the floor as said cannons unleashed their lowest setting on him.

"Hopped-up cretins!" Blackarachnia spat. "Nobody trashes _my_ store!"

Within minutes she had both mechs' arms and mouths wrapped in webbing, muttering expletives the entire time she did it. She examined each of their injuries, huffing as she knew she'd be the one to nurse both of them but uncertain how she was supposed to do that before they came to. She continued to mumble bitterly, failing to notice the company that now stood in the doorway.

The three newcomers stood frozen, staring slack-jawed as the kink shop owner fussed between the two bound and gagged mechs. Finally, the coolest of the newcomers felt the need to voice his opinion on the scene.

"Freaky."

The smooth vocals of the Elite Guard sports car caused the femme to jump, snapping her attention to the door then gaping dumfounded. "Jazz!" she gasped. "Optimus…Ratchet…I, uh…what are you doing here?"

"We um…" The prime tried to stifle how incredibly uncomfortable the scene made him. "We came to get Lockdown…that is, unless you…need him for something."

"No! Please," she lightly kicked the hunter's foot a couple times, attempting to wake him. "Take him, he's all yours." He groaned lightly, his optics slowly illuminating. "His um…" she pointed to his damaged shoulder plating but couldn't remember what it's called. "His thing may need your attention, Ratchet. He took a blast from Starscream."

"Terrific," grumbled the old medic. "I can't wait to examine his _thing_."

Optimus and Jazz pulled the hunter to his feet as the spider freed him from her webs. They dragged him out of the shop in a growling haze, bidding the femme an awkward goodbye. She felt guilty. Lockdown's intentions weren't bad. He was only looking out for her and didn't deserve to be attacked. But she took comfort knowing he was now in capable hands that would make sure he was restored to 100% and were dead set on rescuing the object of his affection.

She vented a long, delirious sigh once they were gone then dropped to her knees to attend to the object of her affection. She freed him from the webs and tore the gag off, pausing for a tender moment to drift her claws over his peacefully unconscious features, enjoying the feel of him in a rare, still state. She thanked Primus her venom caused short-term memory loss in her victims. Her relationship with the bounty hunter was NOT something she wanted to attempt to explain.

"Starscream," she spoke gently, nudging his shoulder. He lolled his head to the side and groaned nasally, slowly on lining his optics. He took in the sights of the shop, noting the toppled shelves and scattered merchandise.

"Th'spark happen here?" He muttered in confusion then hissed sharply as he felt the chainsaw wound on his wing, casting a repulsed glance at it. "How did _that_ happen?"

"Uhh…you fell?" Blackarachnia said meekly. "But don't worry, I'll fix you up. Just like old times." Her wistful smile faded as she mulled over the implication of her words. "Speaking of which," her voice darkened, "what happened back at the brothel?"

"What do _think_ happened?" Starscream replied, equally dark in tone.

The spider cringed and shuddered at the thought, biting back the urge to unleash a jealous fit.

"Why did you _let_ it happen?" she growled through clenched teeth, rising up to fetch the first aid kit behind the checkout counter.

Starscream stood up with a pained groan, the memories of his humiliating scene at Inamorato filling his cortex, the ache in his groin and sting to his pride restoring fully. "I don't want to talk about it!" He snapped, pouting his way to the counter.

"It needs to stop!" She slammed the kit onto the counter and wrenched it open, violently digging through its contents. "He has no respect for you. Doesn't appreciate a shred of what you did, everything you went through." Her anger dissolved into sadness as the memories came flooding back; the seeker's disappearance, Megatron's denial.

"He…" Starscream stammered, unable to hide his shame under the anger. "He actually admitted to feeling guilty."

"Is that your justification?" She peered up at him with slit, skeptical optics. "Is that why you gave in?"

"I didn't!" He protested immediately, attempting to grasp at any shred of dignity. "It was…" He vented a long, relenting sigh, dropping his gaze in to hide his confusion and hurt. "It was weird this time…I think he…I think he wanted me to tell him—" The seeker cut himself off, shaking his head in denial, unwilling to feed the idea that Megatron was even capable of love.

"Tell him what?" The spider inquired, setting a portion of her anger aside as she sensed the seeker's turmoil. She feared what he would say next, his troubled state speaking volumes to the condition of his spark. She knew heartache when she saw it. It took a moment of courage-building to get her next question out, deciding she would rather know the truth then continue on in futile fantasy. "That you love him? Do you love him, Starscream?"

He ducked his head lower, his chassis starting to tremble. This was not a good sign for the spider. She stiffened up, taking a deep intake and readying herself for his answer.

"I did once." He murmured shamefully. "But that was a long time ago. When he was someone else." His voice hardened in disgust. "Not the arrogant old fool he's come to be."

Blackarachnia could only stare incredulously, his confession taking her off guard. She had always assumed he harbored deep feelings for the tyrant but she had never expected to hear him admit it. She felt both pain and relief; pain in that he could be lying, both to her and himself, and that he may still love Megatron, but relief in hearing that he was capable of loving someone other than himself.

"You need to let him go completely." She blurted, tugging his chin up and forcing their optics to meet. "It's a vicious circle, Starscream, one you need to remove yourself from all together. You'll never get what you want if you keep succumbing to him." She stared deep into the clouds of confusion in his optics, recalling a not so distant encounter where the tables were turned; the seeker being there for her and questioning her on this very subject. She softened at the memory, resting her hand gently on his. "What is it you want, Starscream?"

His optics shuttered and shifted awkwardly, the question clearly catching him off guard. "I…" He closed his talons around her claws then rested his mangled hand upon them. "I want what I've always wanted." He attempted to regain some dignity, a charade the spider pitifully saw through. "I want to rule Cybertron."

She sighed with disappointment, hoping the seeker might actually change his tune to something more harmonious. She had a bad feeling the noble Starscream who risked his chassis for Cybertron was lost with his borrowed genius. It made sense that it would be; his moral demonstrations before and during the Quintesson threat an admitted by-product of the human's influence. The spider had hoped back then that it wasn't. She still hoped; hoped that deep down, this troubled seeker truly had a good spark. But perhaps that spark had faded long ago, before she ever knew him. Perhaps Megatron had sucked all redeemable qualities from him during the war and now she was left with just a hollow shell of pain and selfish desire.

"However," he continued with a genuine tone, squeezing her claws meeting her gaze earnestly. "I would like to rule it with you by my side."

Her intakes caught, her spark swelling in surprise as she stared disbelievingly into his sincere optics.

"But," she stammered, unsure how to respond to such an unattainable but beautiful fantasy. "That's impossible, even if you could overthrow Megatron. The Autobots are—"

"The Autobots don't have access to the energon conversion formula." The seeker regained his ambitious smirk, his processor starting to swim with scheming, a look the femme knew too well as she recalled back to multiple staff meetings on board the Nemesis.

"Neither do we, Starscream." She traced her claws up his cheek and over his forehead, remorse for his missing knowledge apparent in her expression.

"But we know where we can get it." His tone took on a hint of disdain but his optics still glowed with wild ambition. "We'll go to that back-stabber Tarantulus with an offer he can't refuse. The organic knowledge is useless to him without the formula, after all."

"Don't get ahead of yourself." She cautioned, not liking where his processor was taking him. "What the spark do we have to offer him?"

"A piece of the pie, naturally." His smirk widened.

"But," she argued as the jet was drifting further and further away from the reality she was in. "If he can't be trusted, why would you want to ally with him?"

"Because he has something we want, Blackarachnia, don't you know anything about forging alliances?" He stepped around to her side of the counter, releasing her hand hopping his aft up to sit upon the counter. With a gentle tug to her shoulders, he forced her to turn around then pulled her between his legs and flush to his cockpit, his arms wrapping around her front and chin resting on her shoulder.

"You play their game until they give you what you want." He talked low and quiet directly into her audio. "And then when they are no longer of any use to you, you discard them."

She dimmed her optics and dropped her head, sighing with hopelessness. "I was afraid you'd say that." His embraced tightened in response to her and, despite how his words stung, she couldn't mask how good his touch felt, his warm exvents skirting across her back. She wanted to find reassurance in his hold but it was easier to believe she was nothing more than a temporary ally. Someone he'd manipulate with grandiose promises then throw away like an empty shell casing. She was all he had right now and he knew it. She was only a stepping stone for what would most likely be another quest for ultimate power; one that would ultimately doom them both.

"Why rock the boat, Starscream?" She hugged her arms over his, an instinctual response to his hold, one her logic circuits would argue against if they weren't trying to reason with his runaway scheming. "Cybertron is at peace now, why change that? Why don't you just," she dared venture into optimism, "stay here with me? Help me with the business. It could be quite lucrative you know. With our combined engineering skills we can—"

"I will NOT," he protested hotly, "stand by inventing kinky toys while the Autobots defile Cybertron and the Decepticon name! It's a waste of our scientific prowess, Blackarachnia; a defeatist's fate." His tone settled a notch, his smirk returning. "We are better than that." He pulled her closer, his arms wrapping even tighter. "We are a force to be reckoned with."

He spun her to face him, his brightened optics meeting her skeptical ones. She found a little reassurance in his words, how he was using 'we' instead of 'I'; something she honestly couldn't remember ever hearing before his resurrection. Still, she wasn't on par with his agenda and needed him to understand her apprehension. She opened her mouth to speak but was cut off as his hands cupped her cheeks and pulled her into a kiss.

She mewled in surprise, tensing only a moment before melting into the touch, unable to mask her desire for him. Their lips moved in a melded, drawn-out dance, the seeker's glossa brushing over her fangs as his talons grasped firmly to her helm. She pressed into him, full-bodied, her arms draping over his shoulders and connecting behind his neck.

She loved him. She knew this without a doubt, despite his sparklessness and magnetism toward trouble. She had seen a remarkable side of him on board that Quintesson ship, one that she wanted all of Cybertron to see as well; one that was in _him_, not in the human.

"Are you with me in this?" He broke the kiss just enough to whisper, his smirk ever present. "I need you, Blackarachnia. I can't do this without you. Say you'll join me."

She stared into his face, her processor still racing with emotion. Primus how she wanted those three words to be true; wanted to believe he truly needed her, but not for her aid in his power quests or scientific pursuits; simply for her love. The love she was willing to give him that no one else was. A love that was selfless, healing, patient…unconditional. He did need her, in more ways than he knew. If she turned him away now, she would always regret it. She would blame herself if he chose a fatal path. She would always wonder what could have been if she hadn't stuck by his side.

"I will," she whispered reluctantly, her logic processes now at war with her feelings. "I will join you, Starscream."


	40. Hunt part 1

A/N: A lot of the terms (drug names) and the backstory of Prowl and Oilslick are a product of mine and are not canon. There is controversial and unsettling content within, so please read the warnings before reading on.

Warnings: Cussing, drug abuse, forced drug use, violence, inferred noncon, imprisonment, torture, angst

**Hunt by Optimus bob**

Ship Yards

Lockdown gazed up at the battered ship resting silently in front of him. He grinned to himself; it wouldn't be long now until she was back in the air again. Her controls at his fingertips. He wished their reunion was under better circumstances but he'd pulled out all of the stops to get her repaired as quickly as possible. He knew that the Autobot council, with all their grand meanderings weren't going to decide in his, in Prowl's favour. Time wasn't a luxury he had, as a bounty hunter Lockdown knew you only had a certain amount of time before your prey took to the hills and he wasn't about to let that snake drag Prowl with him.

He growled his hand balling into a tight fist as he waited for the engineer. In an ironic twist, it was to an Autobot he had to turn, but this Autobot came recommended as the best at what he did. He was also a little odd, Lockdown noted as the rather exuberant mech gave his ship the once over. He resisted asking constantly what the random 'umms' and 'aaahhs' had been about. If anyone could get her airborne again; then this was the mech that all sources had said could get it done.

"Are ya done yet? Gettin' old over here."

The mech quirked an orbital ridge at him and his optics narrowed in a wide smile. The fins on the side of his helm flashed a bright blue when he chuckled and he simply carried on about his business, much to Lockdown's chagrin.

He paced impatiently in the workshop, unable to watch the mech paw over his ship any longer. It was taking too long and he was getting irritable. This was also marred by his deepening ache of worry and fear of the likes he'd never felt before. It was eating at his very spark, making it difficult to think straight. "Just hang on Prowl… I'm gonna find ya…" He shuttered his optics in an attempt to focus his troubled thoughts. The ninja was constantly there whenever he tried to recharge, not that he'd been doing that much since he heard the news. He stood by his silent vow; Oilslick was going to pay.

No matter the outcome, one thing was certain; Oilslick was a dead mech.

Iacon – Council Chambers

Optimus sat rigid in his seat, not trusting himself to act in any way civilised. It had taken almost two solar cycles to travel back home from Earth. The first solar cycle being due to the fact he was in near stasis, it was only thanks to Ratchet's unwavering determination that kept him from slipping that little bit further. The second day, Optimus didn't take no for an answer when he told Ratchet he was returning to Cybertron.

The gruff medic had surprisingly relented, on the proviso that he tag along. Prowl was his friend too and he was going to be damned to the pit if he entrusted his friend's spark to the absent-minded council.

It was at the council they both now sat. Jazz was pacing. He was more on edge than Optimus had ever seen him and couldn't help feel a pang of something at Jazz's concern. He'd always wondered if there had been something more between him and Prowl, that none of them knew about. Prowl, considering he was one of his closest friends was almost a complete mystery to him. It was only since his resurrection that Optimus had been building up the courage to get closer to the elusive, reserved ninjabot.

Second chances rarely came around and should be grabbed with both hands and held onto tightly when they do. Optimus felt his spark sink at the thought. If second chances were so few and far between, what were the chances of a third?

"The council will see you now."

The stern voice shook him to his feet and he gave a curt, confident nod to Jazz and Ratchet who loyally followed him into the chamber to face Sentinel Magnus.

The three mechs stood before the council, all eyeing them with curious, questioning gazes. Sentinel was the one who spoke first. For once without his usual snark.

"We've reached a majority decision with regards to your request for a rescue mission."

Optimus waited with stalled intakes.

"The majority vote was against the proposal, stating we simply do not have the resources to rescue one 'bot from what can only be considered a personal matter." To his credit, Sentinel avoided the angry optics of the mechs standing in front of him. He knew the vote hadn't been fair, even he knew Prowl deserved more, as much as he wasn't fond of the mech.

"I might've guessed ya'd do this!" Jazz retorted angrily. "Ya can't ever stand it can ya? Someone bein' more valuable than ya!" He snarled and tore his arm out of Optimus's calming grip, holding him back. "Ya disgust me the lot o' ya!" The white ninja was gone from the room before anyone could stop him.

Ratchet went after him, in the hope of calming the mech down while they came up with another plan. Leaving Optimus facing the council. He glared at each and every one of them in turn and came to a standstill when he reached Sentinel.

"I honestly expected, hoped that you'd at least be on our side for this… just this once." His words were clipped, filled with his rage and pain. Memories of another they'd both left behind rising painfully to the surface. Optimus had stopped Sentinel from going in after Elita and now the tables were turned, Sentinel was finally getting even.

He raised his voice so the whole chamber could hear him. "Prowl died fighting Megatron, saving Earth, he almost died not long ago." He lowered his voice, in an attempt to get the tremor under control. "Saving Cybertron. That mech is a hero twice over and you sit here in your ivory tower and turn your back on him!" He held Sentinel's optics with venom he rarely ever showed. "I honestly expected more from you."

Sentinel's optics widened, he knew exactly where Optimus's words were solely directed. He knew Optimus had expected nothing from the council. He'd lain his hopes on him and he had failed. He bowed his head, not wanting to reveal his utter shame that filled him at Optimus's words. It didn't matter that he'd been one of three mechs to vote for the rescue. He was only acting Magnus and the majority had overruled him.

Even heroes were forgotten in the wake of politics.

"Calm down, we'll think of something."

Optimus could hear Ratchet trying to placate the irate ninja but Jazz was having none of it. The white mech looked about ready to kill someone. This wasn't a Jazz he was used to seeing.

"Like slag we will Doc! What are we suppose t' do? Steal a ship?" He stopped for a moment a strange look crossing his face.

"No… don't even think it." Ratchet warned.

Optimus jumped in. "They'd throw you in the stockade Jazz, before you even got close." He shook his head. "We need to find someone who has a ship and is willing to help."

Jazz slumped into a nearby seat, his head in his hands and vented an exasperated sigh. Ratchet looked at him with sadness in his optics.

"We don't know anyone…"

Silence filled the room at Ratchet's honest statement. It was fact, they didn't know anyone who had a ship and was willing to help. There was no doubt that Prowl was no longer planet bound. They needed a ship just to start somewhere.

"Yeah we do." Jazz stood up suddenly his face a picture of revelation.

"Who?" Ratchet frowned.

"Lockdown."

"No way… No fraggin' way!" The medic swore, it now his turn to pace. He hadn't seen that bounty hunter since that time at Inamorato. A moment he did not want to remember.

Jazz glared at Optimus with earnest determination. "His spark is hot for Prowl, ya know it. I know it and he has a ship. If we're lucky we can catch him before he leaves t' rescue Prowl without us."

As much as it pained him to admit it, Optimus knew Jazz was right. The hunter clearly had feelings for Prowl and had so far been his only obstacle in getting close to the black and gold mech. Right now, it seemed the gruff, dangerous mech was their only choice.

He nodded once. "Alright how do we contact him?"

"Already on it OP." Jazz was activating his comm as he spoke.

//Arcee, nah I'm 'fraid not….I know, I know. Look I need LD's comm frequency.// He paused listening to the femme on the other side of the comm. //I got it, yeah…. He is… I will. Thanks Arcee.//

He smirked at Optimus some of his old self returning, if only for a brief moment. He glanced across at Ratchet. "Arcee said t' tell ya, t' take care of yerself. And not t' go huntin' no hunters until the job's done."

Optimus smirked at that, having heard of the incident through Jazz himself.

They waited patiently while the white mech disappeared to make another comm call to the bounty hunter. He returned shortly after with a grim expression. "He'll work with us, but we're followin' his lead on this OP, he is the hunter after all. And he knows 'Slick the best outta all of us."

"That's fine. Where will he meet us?"

"He won't we'll find him at the ship yards in Iacon. If we're not there in the next cycle, he leaves without us."

Ratchet inwardly groused about having to work with the unscrupulous mech. He didn't trust him and he certainly didn't approve of his advances towards Prowl. Biting back his pride, he made the decision for them.

"What the slag are we waiting around here for then? Come on! I know this city like the back of my hand with my optics offline. I'll take us a shorter route."

Jazz grinned and gave Ratchet a friendly slap on the back. "My mech, yer singin' sweet music t' my audio. Lead the way maestro."

The Death's Head was humming beautifully once more. Her consoles once again warm and alight to the touch. Just a few more minor adjustments.

Lockdown was feeling much better about his choice of engineer. Wheeljack had proven to be nothing short of a genius. Although he'd caught the mech staring at his feet once or twice with a strange look in his optics. That was enough to make Lockdown want off the planet already. He was fidgeting and ready to kick the engineer off his ship and lift off.

His comm buzzed startling him back into reality. //Who th' spark's this? How'd ya get this frequency?//

He frowned and sat in his captain's chair. //Oh it's you. I see… well it's gonna' cost ya I aint no taxi service.// He paused and flinched at the obvious tirade of abuse he was receiving from the other end of the comm. //Alright, hold ya horses kid. Ya got a deal, be here in a cycle. I'm not waitin', Prowl's life depends on the time we got now. So get yer afts shiftin'. Oh and one more thing.// He paused his optics narrowing as he worked out the dynamics of such an undertaking.

//Ya follow my rules, my instructions or ya can get out n' walk that clear?// He nodded as he heard the affirmative and he cut the comm without any pleasantries.

"Well darlin'" He spoke aloud, his fingers trailing along the smooth console. "There goes the neighbourhood."

Undisclosed Location – Somewhere on the edge

Dim light casts a dull glow over the dingy cot. The room dank and dreary. The light exudes from a single low powered, flickering bulb.

A lone hand grips the dirty padding of the cot tightly and the sounds of retching fill the room, drowning out the silence.

The 'bot empties his tanks onto the already filthy floor. His frame trembling with exertion. Tightening his grip on the small berth he hauls himself onto the thin padding, falling onto his side, low shaky keens escaping his vocaliser.

Death's Head – In flight

Lockdown was pissed, he couldn't exactly put his finger on why, but he was not happy. He could possibly have put it down to Jazz's incessant pacing, the ninjabot was unusually impatient and wound up. Optimus's simpering certainly wasn't winning him any brownie points either.

"What the frag is wrong with this blasted ship. What did you put her together with duct tape?"

Lockdown glowered and shrank down in his captain's chair with a low growl. That was it. The gruff old medic, Ratchet. The initial meeting had been awkward to say the least and despite being cooped up on the Death's Head, they had managed to keep a wide berth of each other.

The griping however had gotten louder and it was beginning to wear thin on Lockdown's last remaining nerve. The rest having already been frittered away in worry for Prowl, not that he would ever admit that of course.

He didn't want to think about what was potentially happening to the absent ninjabot. He comforted himself in the knowledge that Oilslick wanted him alive, although the mech had never really specified in what kind of state. Lockdown had an uneasy feeling that Oilslick didn't care how Prowl broke, as long as he stayed broken and that thought alone gave him chills.

"What in the slag happened to the central circuit board? Are you trying to blow us up?" The grating vocals of the ever constantly irate medic finally burst into Lockdown's cortex like a thousand fiery needles. He was up out of his seat and pinning the medic to the bulkhead by his throat, before his processor had had chance to register what was happening.

"Do ya think I care what ya think? Do ya think I give a fuck, what ya problem is?" His voice raised with the intensity of his words as he leaned into the stunned red and white 'bot.

"Yer on my ship now doc… and we're here to find Prowl so if ya don't sit down and shut ya trap, I'm gonna throw ya outta my airlock and blast ya ageing chassis t' the nearest fucking star and watch ya burn!"

Ratchet fell silent under the sheer emotional intensity of Lockdown's words. He'd seen that look in the optics of mechs before, to know well enough not to push the bounty hunter. Lockdown was scared, terrified for someone other than himself and the old medic couldn't help but feel a stab of guilt at his insensitive attitude. He'd known Lockdown had a soft spot for Prowl and while he would never approve, he could see right now, red optics just inches from his face, just how deep that soft spot bled into Lockdown's spark

"Whoa…LD… chill mech alright." Jazz was by Lockdown's side as soon as he'd entered the bridge and caught sight of the spectacle. "We're all on the same team here ya dig?" He placed a hand on the forearm of Lockdown's arm still gripping Ratchet's throat. It was a soothing gesture, coupled with an unspoken warning. The ninja was more than capable of dealing with Lockdown if he had to. He met red optics with an intense blue visor. "I'm worried too, we can't take it out on each other, I know ya may not like the mech but we need every man on the job for this." He shot a glare to Ratchet and relaxed a little as Lockdown released him with a snarl.

"So let's just be cool."

Lockdown clenched his good hand and counted backwards silently from ten. "Just keep ya fraggin' hands and opinions o' my ship t' yer fraggin' self. Or ya can get out n' walk!"

He stormed from the bridge, heading swiftly to his private quarters. The whole situation had him thoroughly burnt out. A never ending torrent of emotions, a rollercoaster ride for his spark. He sat heavily on his berth and rubbed his face with a loud exvent of hot air.

"Primus Prowl… if only ya knew what ya do t'me." His optics flickered and dimmed as he sat for a moment. His intakes were shaky as he tried to regain some modicum of control over his fraying psyche. He grabbed a can of coolant and rocked back and rested his weary helm against the cool bulkhead, optics staring out of the nearby port, while he gulped the unpleasant sludge.

They weren't on Cybertron anymore, they were heading to the colonies located on the edge. That would be where someone like Oilslick could hide. He would disappear among the rest of the bottom feeders that were most likely his central customer base.

A frown creased Lockdown's tattooed white face as he gazed out at the streaks of light zipping past his window. It was difficult to picture Prowl, the prim and proper and ever so seemingly repressed ninja bot, with the likes of Oilslick. The bounty hunter had a hard time dealing with what kind of life a pretty chassis like Prowl would have led in that sort of environment. A growl escaped his vocaliser and the can crumpled like so much paper in his fist. He was not going to let Prowl get sucked back into that dark and hopeless existence. The 'bot was more than that, he'd picked himself up and got himself out and away from the slimy claws of Oilslick and Lockdown was going to be damned to the pit if he allowed that to be snatched away from the ninja.

"Ya better stay alive Prowl, ya hear me? Don't let him have yer spark, hang on kid…. I'm comin' fer ya."

The alert klaxon rang out and Lockdown shot up and out of his room. The crushed can was discarded on the floor, joining so many others, all littering the room with the hunter's drowned sorrows.

Somewhere on the edge

Wrists strain against tight restraints. Ankles strapped to the berth in the same fashion. The 'bot writhed and moaned on the thin padding. His stained chassis arching off the small berth with a painful cry.

His fists are balled and they shake violently as something crawls its way through his systems.

Poison, another new concoction, a potent stimulant.

He is strapped down for his own safety, so his captor has said. He is the test subject, it's a crude method but it works. Red optics narrow at the 'bot's reactions and the corner of his mouth curls upwards in satisfaction.

The constant din of the nearby laboratory is not enough to smother the lithe mech's cries and pleas. His frame is suddenly racked with convulsions, joints lock and he strains against the straps holding him down with a high keen.

"Frag." The red optics widen and the watcher shouts a number of commands back into the brightly lit lab. "I told you to tone down the active. Give me the counter agent, frag it! Quick before the fragger goes into stasis!"

He moves beside the berth and injects another dark liquid into the slender neck. The struggling mech whimpers as he regains control of his body. His piercing gaze locking with amused red optics.

"Please… no more…"

"If only you'd accepted my offer." His hand strokes the dark helm. "Things could have been so very different." He stands and makes to leave the tied down 'bot where he is. "I'm going to enjoy breaking you dear Prowl. You'll never dare leave me again."

"Don't leave me here, please! PLEASE! Not like this!"

The room falls dim once more and locks sheer across the heavy metal door. Blue optics glow dimly in the shady room, before they go dark entirely followed by a soft whimper.

"Not like this…"


	41. Hunt part 2

A/N: Same warnings apply - this part contains inferred slash and noncon and implied forced drug abuse

Hunt part 2 - by Optimus Bob

Death's Head 

The ship jolted sharply, the viewer filled with a bright flash as an explosion rocked off the port bow.

"This is crazy! What's goin' on!"

"Automated defence systems!" Lockdown roared over the alert. "They're set up along the borders t' stop mercenaries from pilfering the outer colonies."

Optimus stared at the screen in disbelief. "You make it sound like there are pirates out here Lockdown, which is just a ridiculous notion told to sparklings."

Lockdown glowered at the red and blue 'bot with sharp optics. "Alright hot shot, who the frag d' ya reckon they're firing at then?" His arm flared out to the side, gesturing wildly to the screen as a much smaller and well armed ship zips past them, firing frantically at the defence network.

Optimus's mouth drops open as the weapons all target the fleeing ship and blow into oblivion. Lockdown let out a snarl and thumbed his console hard, bringing his ship to a screeching halt, before they breached the defence perimeter.

"Now what?" Ratchet spoke up. "We just going to sit here and wait?"

"EG, Yer a navigator right?"

Jazz met Lockdown's gaze with a curious look. "I've been trained yeah, had t' fly Sentinel's ship more than once on my own. Why?"

"Yer up, sit over there." Lockdown planted himself down in the pilot's seat next to the ninja bot. "Yer my optics and audio, got it?"

"Clear as a bell, LD. Lead on."

The two mechs prompted the ship forward breaching the perimeter. They were scanned almost immediately, weapons arming in front of them. Without warning the scanners flicked off and the large weapons powered down.

"I don't understand, why aren't they firing at us?" Optimus frowned.

Lockdown shot him a knowing look and a smug smirk spread across his stark white features. "I just happen to have a large quantity of identification transducers in the back"

Optimus stared at the hunter completely blank. Ratchet almost rolled his optics at the baffled expression and leaned in close to the Prime.

"It means he can mask the energy signature of the ship to appear as anything he wants."

Blue optics widened at the realisation. "That's illegal technology!" Optimus started, only to be interrupted by the only official law mech on board.

"OP if we're gonna start gettin' all legal, then I'll just have t' throw all our afts in the brig." He glanced back at the mech with an easy smile. "We're breakin' EG rules just by bein' on this ship. Ya dig?"

Lockdown listened to the conversation with satisfied amusement. They were on his turf now and it gave him a little bit of a buzz to know just how uncomfortable that made the prim and proper Optimus Prime. He did not like the way the Prime sniffed around Prowl like he was some sort of treat. He would not admit to being jealous, oh no, but that did not stop him from garnering a sense of victory as the Prime floundered like a fish out of water.

"Good t' know which team yer battin' for EG."

Jazz let out a low chuckle but with very little mirth. "Yeah, I'm solidly in Prowl's corner until we make the home run. I've got no plans t' pick out china patterns with ya just yet LD."

They made it past the defence net with little to no more interference and made their way steadily to the first colony. A dirty little moon base with a bad reputation. It was as good a place to start as any and much to Lockdown's growing concern this was where his knowledge of the elusive Oilslick ran out.

From here on in, it was all a process of elimination to find the dealer. Follow the breadcrumbs Lockdown thought to himself, his shrewd processor fully engaged into hunting mode. He would find Oilslick, if it was the last thing he did and then he'd give him an up close and personal tour of his trophy room as he took him apart, piece by piece.

Unknown

The rusty berth springs creak and groan under the strain. The small room fills with the pitiful sobbing moans of an already damaged vocaliser.

Soft grunts break up the whimpered sounds, the squeak of the cot repetitive, incessant and unrelenting.

A sharp cry, one of pain and despair fills the room followed by a few low feral growls and the thud, thud, thud of the cot as it slams against the sound proofed walls.

Then silence.

A mech moves in the shadowy room, rising up to his knees on the small, stained berth. Soft, dark chuckling drowns out the sound of quiet agonised moans.

Unnamed Moon Base

Lockdown shifted uncomfortably, his large bland coloured poncho was draped lazily over his shoulders as he watched the oddball group of 'bots shift uncomfortably through the crowds.

"Hey LD these new threads are crazy." The ninjabot approached with the casual ease of one used to the slums of Cybertron. Something that the bounty hunter was not surprised by, given the 'bot's usual relaxed demeanour.

The Autobots had undergone a temporary and radical refit of their appearance. Their insignias covered quite expertly by another of Lockdown's trinkets and their paintwork had been altered by both him and Ratchet in order for them to blend in more smoothly.

Optimus followed Jazz, looking distinctly awkward and out of place. Lockdown chuckled to himself, the mech stuck out like a sore thumb. His red optics narrowed as the tall 'bot stumbled in his distraction and apologised profusely to the stall owner he'd run into. Shaking his head, he cast Jazz a gruff nod of his head and gestured to a dimly lit dingy bar.

He let Jazz enter first but held out his hand square in Optimus's chest.

"Ya go in there hot shot, yer gonna get slagged."

Optimus glowered, his fists clenched by his sides. "I'm not going to stand around and do nothing Lockdown. Prowl is my friend and he has been long before you came on the scene and tried to kill us. So don't be thinking you're the only one with something invested in this."

Lockdown merely regarded Optimus with a quirked optic ridge and a slightly curled upper lip. "Ya wanna go toe t' toe wi' me mech?" He squared up to Optimus, his formidable armour outclassing the Prime's unmodified chassis. "'Coz I'll go right here."

"Oh for pits sake. Cut it out, there is more at stake than simply your egos, get over yourselves and concentrate on the mission." Ratchet glared at them both. "We're here for Prowl and if you two don't pull your acts together I doubt there's going to be a mech left for you to fight over."

Lockdown met the intense glare, blue optics steady and focused, his words sending daggers directly through his spark. Optimus hadn't seemed to have heard the medic and was still glaring at Lockdown.

"You think you scare me Lockdown? I've faced far worse 'bots than you."

Lockdown let our a short humourless laugh, dismissing the highly strung mech with a wave as he entered the building. "Difference 'tween me n' them... their spark wasn't in it."

Optimus made to follow only to be stopped by a firm grip on his arm.

"Let it go kid, come with me. This old 'bot knows a thing or two about getting information from unscrupulous sources."

Optimus shot a glance back to the run down hovel and reluctantly followed the smaller mech leading the way. His worry was building to an almost unbearable level, he knew it was colouring his thinking, affecting his actions but all he could think was that he wouldn't know what he'd do if he lost Prowl again. He gritted his denta, this time he wouldn't fail. He wouldn't leave Prowl behind like he'd left Elita. This time he'd get it right.

Lockdown strolled confidently into the dilapidated bar, Jazz was already chatting up a storm with the bartender. Rolling his optics Lockdown smirked, should have known the EG had a gift of the gab. He headed over and gave a short nod to the barkeep whose face lit up when his optics fell onto the green and black mech.

"Lockdown! It's been a long time."

"That it has Bolts, ya look like ya've been doin' alright for yerself."

The small 'bot behind the bar dipped his head in modesty and gave a little shrug. "Hey it's not much but she's all mine you know. Got it with our last payout, you remember that last job Lockers." He whistles with a rueful shake of his head. "We didn't half have some fun did we."

Lockdown let out a rumbling chuckle, well aware of the blue visor watching him with renewed interest. "Ya should be proud, I've been in far worse places than this."

The mech grinned and slapped the counter merrily. "Well on that note Lockers, what'll it be?"

The white tattooed face changed from casual to sombre and shaking his head he took a seat on one of the tall stools. "'Fraid not this time around, got some business t' attend wondered if ya could help."

The bartender leaned on his bar counter and frowned. "This business aint good for you Lockers, you not thought about retiring, settling down? You're not getting any younger you know?"

Lockdown actually smiled somewhat sadly. "Ya don't know the half of it Bolts."

"Hey I know that look. What's the lucky mech's name?" Bolts turned and poured some dark liquid and planted it in front of the bounty hunter. "You drink that, I get off shift in a jour, we'll talk about it."

"Bolts I really don't have the time t'…"

The bartender waved at him dismissively. "Won't hear of it Lockers, we'll talk later for sure and whatever trouble you're in, if I've got any info that can help your sorry aft, it's yours." He patted Lockdown's hand and gave a pleasant nod to Jazz as he wandered off to another customer.

Jazz planted himself in the stool next to Lockdown and smirked at him. "Lockers?"

"Don't start wi' me EG."

"Hey mech it's cool." The ninja let out a soft amused chuckle, while his hidden optics casually scouted out their surroundings. "What is it with you and bartenders anyway?"

Unknown Location

The mech's red optics widen when the smaller 'bot slams him against the wall with a feral snarl.

"More, now!" He demands with a snarl, pale optics boring into red with murderous intent.

The sly leer spreads across Oilslick's face and his optics flash with barely contained arousal. "Whatever you need Prowl, it's yours." He smiles darkly at the ninja. "On one condition."

"Frag you and your conditions! GIVE. ME. WHAT I. WANT!" His fist slams into the wall beside the taller mech. Oilslick shivers with intimidation at Prowl's drug induced rage. "Need it."

"I know, I know." He traces a line down Prowl's face plates, before grabbing the back of his neck, twisting and forcing the ninja against the wall face first. He leans in close and purrs into Prowl's audio.

"You'll have everything you want and need from me, after… After you bond to me."

"Gaaaahhhh! Do it now, I can't take this any longer!"

"I wish I could pet, but you have to be clean for the bond to hold and be complete. Not much longer to wait now Prowl." His glossa laps at the slender throat and up over the mech's faceplates. "My sweet Prowl. It won't be long before you're mine, for better, for worse."

Moon base Clinic

Optimus watched with quiet awe as Ratchet dived straight into what he knew best, being a medic.

The small pharmacy/free clinic was by all decent standards an absolute mess. Ratchet had snarled with disgust upon entering. They had gained entry under the guise of Health Care inspectors and after Ratchet had finished tearing the place down with the amount of non adherence to protocols they had, he had jumped straight in as soon as an emergency case had stumbled into the building.

The mech was clearly over dosing on something and had managed to regain enough coherency to whisper to Ratchet what it was before he had slipped into stasis.

This was where Optimus was at the moment, his spark pounding in his chest as Ratchet tried to save the spark of the fading mech. Energon was on his hands, the floor, his normally red and white chassis as he had to manually transfuse the 'bot with the limited supplies the clinic had available.

The clinic staff was no help and so Optimus currently found himself holding onto the main fuel line clamp while Ratchet set up the energon refiner. The energon had to be completely clear of impurities before being pumped into the mech, otherwise it would reach his spark and he would die.

The refiner blipped once signifying its readiness. Ratchet waved Optimus out of the way and quickly hooked up the line, making sure the siphon to remove the tainted energon was attached to his secondary fuel line.

"It's working right?" Optimus asked quietly as the refiner whirred into life.

"So far so good kid. This will take a few hours, we need to clean up, we don't want whatever he's been given getting into our systems at any level no matter how small."

Optimus frowned as he peered down at his own stained frame. "Ratchet…. Do you think Oilslick is behind this drug? We know he is a major manufacturer from what Lockdown told us."

Shaking his head, Ratchet rubbed his faceplates. "Can't say for certain Prime, not unless the glitch here wakes up."

"Do you think… he's forcing them on Prowl?"

Ratchet glared up at the taller mech for a moment before his expression softened. "Don't think like that kid. Prowl's gonna' be just fine you'll see. There's not much that brings the fraggin' ninja down in case you haven't noticed."

Optimus averted his gaze, his optics dim with worry. "Actually I've noticed quite a bit that can bring him down, just not any that have managed to keep him that way."

Their optics met for a moment and both knew nothing more needed to be said. The threat was very real, the danger very prominent and they both knew they were running out of time.

Bolt's Bar – After Hours

Lockdown listened as the bartender chatted animatedly to Jazz about times long past, his brief but colourful business partnership with Lockdown and how he'd come about setting up a bar on a dingy little moon base. Jazz with all credit to him, was engaging and friendly but then Lockdown hadn't really seen anything different from the ninja, such a stark contrast to the ever stoic Prowl.

The hunter had to force himself not to think too much about the black and gold mech, when he did he lost his focus, lost sight of the goal and things from that point onwards just got all sorts of fucked up.

"So ya gonna' tell us what ya know or do I have t' listen t' ya chew my audio off fer the rest o' the cycle?"

Bolts grinned at the surly mech and poured him another can of coolant. "Alright, alright but I can only tell you what's been passing through here. Which lets face it on a moon base like this one, it's pretty much every mech that docks with us."

A loud yelling erupted from the shadier corners of the bar, causing the three mechs to wince. Bolts frowned as a cube was launched at a view screen and more cursing and yelling spewed from the perpetrators vocaliser.

"Bolts! You've got frag all on the viewer, put on some arena fighting, supposed to be ol' Luggers up against a guest starring Dinobot tonight."

"Keep your glitch in check Roller. Its after hours…" Bolts headed over and switched the channel with a scowl. "If you want to stay, stay quietly, I don't want to hear another squeak out of you."

The mech ran his fingers across his mouth with a mocking grin. Bolts shook his head and ventured back over to the table when the mech once more hollered at the screen as the signal faded into static. He turned in time to see the mech known as Jazz hoist the mech out of his chair and toss him out the front door, locking it behind him.

The visor flashed brightly as Jazz shrugged at him. "Hope ya don't mind mech but we kinda short on time here."

Bolts smiled. "Hey its no problem to me, I can barely get shut of him on a good cycle." He chuckled before noticing the sombre expressions of the two mechs. He sobered up immediately. "Right so what I know…"


	42. Hunt 3

A/N: bit more action, similar warnings as before.

Clinic - by Optimus Bob

Ratchet bolted into the room when the monitors started bleeping wildly. The mech on the berth thrashed and choked. Glaring at the machine as if he could will it to stop Ratchet set to work to try and save the mech. "Oh frag no!"

"Ratchet was is it, what's happening?" Optimus skidded to a halt as Ratchet fought a losing battle against the dying throes of the mech.

A hand grabbed the medic's collar fairing and yanked him down with a sharp groan. "Make it... stop... give me... stuff..."

"What stuff, tell me what it is?"

"New drug... soo good... need it, please more it stops the pain." The mech writhed and keened, arching of the berth painfully, keeping a strong grip on Ratchet. "Tro...jan..."

"Trojan?" Ratchet frowned still in the process of desperately trying to stabilise the 'bot's fading spark. "Is that who gave it to you?"

The mech let out a piercing scream before laughing manically. "Makes me stronger, better... Trojan... where is he? He knew where I could find it, he supplies... the tall one..."

Ratchet swore loudly, Optimus watching on in helpless horror.

"Frag it, the tall one? What's his name, where can we find him?"

"Nnngghhh... white face... the tall one with the white face...he finds you... GIVE ME IT! Trojan... neee... need it.... pleeaasee... " The mech gave a spark wrenching sob his hand slipping back to the berth. His optics flickered and his head lifted towards Ratchet just once.... "A ship... always on a ship." He grinned wildly and laughed once more.

The two mechs could only watch as the 'bot fell silent, his damaged spark exposed with Ratchet's in feed lines trying to stabilise what was left. His intakes hiccupped and a whisper of air escaped. Optics spiralled inward and went dark, chassis slowly fading to a bland dull grey.

"FRAG IT! Son of a glitch... why'd you have to go poisoning yourself!" Ratchet fumed passionately and thumped the berth in frustration. "Slag it all to the pits, defects the lot of 'em!"

"Ratchet... " Optimus took a tentative step forward. "You did everything you could."

The medic shot the young Prime a dark look and shook his head. "Did I? Do any of us when this sorta slag still exists in our civilisation." He sighed wearily and stormed from the room. "Let's go kid, there's nothing more we can learn from this place. We got what we came for."

Optimus stared after him and glanced back over to the berth with the shell of a mech left still exposed and alone. His spark twisted at the callousness of existence and somewhat unsettled and feeling physically ill, he followed the medic out of the clinic.

Bolt's bar

Jazz waited outside the bar while Lockdown said his goodbye's. He activated his comm to Optimus and told him what they now knew. It wasn't much to go on but something was definitely better than nothing, especially when the clock was against them. Ratchet and Optimus were on their way back with news of their own. With any luck, between them they had garnered something that would prove lucrative. Jazz let out a soft worried sigh, he refused to think of what ifs, to him failing this mission simply wasn't an option.

"Ready t' go EG?"

"Just waitin' on OP and the Doc. They got some news of their own we might be able to use."

Lockdown's tattooed pale face was screwed up into a determined scowl. "Good we need all the leads we can get out here."

Soon enough the two mechs arrived looking a little worse for wear. Optimus appeared (as much as any Cybertronian could) distinctly green around the gills and Ratchet was a blustering torrent of fury as he relayed what the unfortunate 'bot had told them on his death bed.

Lockdown's scowl deepened as he learned about what had happened. He set off towards his ship at a furious pace, leaving the others to hastily follow in his wake. Transforming he made a beeline for the main bridge and like any good bounty hunter, hacked into the Moon base's security feeds and monitors. He scrolled through and thumbed the tab for docking.

"Looks like there were three ships docked in the last two megacycles. We need t' narrow that down." Jazz peered at the console, strictly all business. His presence startled Lockdown as he hadn't even heard the white ninja approach, a testament to his skills in all fairness to the mech.

"How do we do that?" Optimus looked between them both. "We don't have time to split up and scout all three."

"Easy." Ratchet countered. "If you can hack into the vid feeds you can see traffic to and from the ships. If the information between us is in anyway accurate then we have to assume that the fragger is live docked."

Lockdown's brow creased upwards in surprise. "Well I hate t' agree with ol' bucket head here but he's right."

Jazz was at the console before Lockdown had even turned back round. His nimble fingers making short of the console as he pulled up cycles worth of vid feeds. "Well mechs pull up a chair we got a few cycles worth of feed t' get through. Sharp optics people. Let's get t' it."

"Fergettin' where ya are EG?"

Jazz shot the hunter a humourless grin. "Nah LD just keepin' the ball movin' and I can type faster than you." His visor blinked in a wink and he turned back to the console, a vid file was sent to each console and the mechs got to work siphoning through the giga-watts of data.

Unknown

The chains rattle against the frame of the cot as the ninja strains as hard as he can to free himself. His frame severely depleted of energon is too weak to break the bonds, his legs strapped down in a similar fashion. The door opens and Oilslick leers at his prize.

"It's time Prowl, and then you will belong to me."

"I will NEVER give my spark to you!" Prowl snarls his normally smooth vocals laced with pure hatred.

"You don't have a choice my dear Prowl." Oilslick laughs cruelly as he perches on the edge of the berth and runs his finger down the full length of the sleek black and gold. "And afterwards I'll make sure you don't care either way."

Docking Yard

Jazz was the first one to enter the run down, neglected dock yards. His stark frame expertly hidden by the shadows as he signalled the taller mech the all clear.

They were all running on silent comms, who knew what security measures a paranoid mech like Oilslick employed to keep out unwelcome guests.

Lockdown was next to follow, he watched as Jazz skilfully weaved through the shadows taking out one mech with silent efficiency as he approached the docked vessel. Their target. He gave a curt nod at Jazz's hand signal, knowing that the mech's useful visor helped him to see with much more clarity in darker environments. Jazz was operating with night vision, it was his job to get into the ventilation systems of the ship, the only place they knew for a fact, weren't monitored.

Optimus had been given a crash course in piloting the sensitive Death's Head. He was monitoring their progress from modified trackers placed on their chassis. It conveniently gave a read out of a two meter radius around the wearer detecting any other bodies in the vicinity.

Ratchet was sticking close to Lockdown and thankfully remained quiet throughout. Lockdown took a quick glance up at the monitor facing them, hoping the Prime had managed to hack into the system like he'd shown him.

"Alright Doc. Think ya can handle yer self in there? I don't wanna be fighting on my own and I sure as slag aint carryin' yer old 'bolts."

Ratchet huffed and activated his EMP generator and his magnetic coils. "You concentrate on your lookin' after your own aft, I'll jump in to save it when you get into trouble."

Lockdown actually smirked at the backhanded comment. "Be interestin' t' see hot shot. Let's see how ya handle yerself first." With that he solidly kicked the metal door, almost taking it off the frame supporting it. He burst into the ship chainsaw blazing and quickly dived straight into the group of surprised mechs.

Ratchet followed close behind his EMP generator taking out one mech cleanly, the 'bot crumpling to the floor. It didn't matter if they recognised them, in this mission they were nobody's, nameless, faceless mechs and if they were foolish enough to get in the way then they were going to taste the business end of a very angry chainsaw.

Jazz waited for his cue. The chainsaw was loud, garish and Jazz was moving in an instant, his lithe frame fit snugly into the ventilation systems. He knew from the uploaded schematics where he was headed. The main bridge appeared to be much smaller on the blueprints than it should have been and that was his first point of contact. If the ship had been customised then the bridge could very possibly have extra rooms that would not have been included on the schematics. A very useful guise if ever pulled over by the Elite Guard.

He paused at his destination and peered into the bright room. Panic was quickly travelling through the decks of the large ship as Lockdown and Ratchet continued to reign chaos on the lower levels, exactly the diversion Jazz needed to leap into the, what could only be described as a lab.

He landed lightly, soundlessly, nunchuku in hand, activating them he swung into action. Flipping neatly over a table he made short work of the first 'bot that ran into him. The mech crumpled to the floor without so much as a whimper. Jazz spun round and twisted to avoid a blow and landed a strong kick into the 'bot's midsection sending him flying over a bench.

He leapt onto the bench and the Nunchuku flew and whipped around him in a glowing blur as he fought. All of his skills and training came into play as some mechs were more skilled than others. In this regard he was grateful for his close combat training he'd received as part of the Elite Guard. He landed a punch to a mech's faceplates, a grim smirk permanently etched onto his face.

He caught movement behind him and dropped low and twisted to avoid getting speared with a lance like weapon. The mech was skilled, fast. Jazz grinned darkly, dangerously, he wasn't fast enough. His Nunchuku sliced across the mech's chassis and he fell at Jazz's feet. The white ninja growled softly the Cyberdrenalin pumping through his systems, his visor darkened as he spotted a dark door leading off from the main lab. He raced over and a piteous cry reached his audio. Snarling Jazz battered down the door and froze in horror at the scene before him.

His horror quickly turned to rage and he launched himself at the larger mech with a ferocity very few mechs had ever been unlucky to encounter. He grabbed Oilslick and tore him away from the mech strapped beneath him, with a feral snarl. The tall mech staggered back into the wall and growled at Jazz who now stood between him and Prowl.

"Yer gonna pay for this ya filthy slagger." Jazz wasted no more time with words and launched straight into a duel with the older ninja. Oilslick's own skills had remained sharp well honed and Jazz soon found himself outmatched by a mech with a great deal more experience than he had.

The white ninja slammed into the floor with a grunt of pain a heavy foot stamping into his back struts eliciting a sharp cry from his vocaliser. He activated his comm on all channels and made a last attempt to call for help, every other attempt having been cut off by Oilslick's attack.

"Someone upper level, gaahh could use a hand here mechs. Oilslick has me Nngghh pinned down, literally. Whenever ya get chance it's cool." He managed to maintain a modicum of control despite the pain he was currently in. Cutting the comm, he twisted, sharply, painfully with a strangled cry and took out Oilslick's leg.

The next few moments were a blur until he found himself pinned to the corner of the lab, a strong hand gripping his throat, the vice like grip threatening to snap the cables in his neck.

His visor dimmed as the flow of energon began to dwindle.

Oilslick suddenly let out a roar of pain. He fell into Jazz, the white ninja regaining enough strength to shove him off into the familiar red and blue chassis of Optimus. Jazz grinned. "Damn glad t' see ya OP."

"No problem Jazz, get Prowl out of here, I'll deal with this piece of scrap."

"Ya got it OP."

Oilslick snarled and lunged for the quick ninja only to be snagged by the angry Prime and thrown out of reach.

"You're never getting your hands on Prowl, ever again."

Jazz re-entered the dark room and had to cover his mouth at the sight of the dark ninja, his visor dimming in painful sympathy. Sinking beside the small cot, he quickly released Prowl's restraints with trembling hands. The black and gold ninja stirred from light stasis as Jazz tried to close the damaged chest plates. "Oh Prowl... m' sorry, Ratchet's on his way. Just hang in there ok?

Prowl's uncovered optics flickered in his direction and his mouth tugged upwards, his hand reaching up to touch Jazz's face. "Jazz." The normally smooth voice, was hoarse and cracked into the whisper. "Is it really you?"

"Yeah Prowl." Jazz took hold of his hand and squeezed tight. "It's me, not goin' anywhere."

Prowl suddenly seemed to panic and clung onto Jazz's hand. "Please tell me I'm not... not going to wake up... stay with me..."

Jazz's spark almost broke in two at the almost frantic plea. "M'stayin' Prowl, don't think on it mech."

"That's good..." Prowl sighed and lay limply on the thin berth, his optics flickering and dimming.

Jazz tensed as Prowl fell quiet. "Prowl? Stay awake mech, keep talkin', please keep talkin'" The ninja felt a gently touch on his shoulder and he peered up to see Ratchet crouching beside him.

The medic, grunted and hummed with concern as he scanned Prowl's frame. "He needs desperate medical attention. He's safe to carry."

Jazz stood and frowned. "I got injured I'd be afraid of droppin' him."

"I'll take him."

The two Autobots turned to face the speaker with vague surprise. The hunter's voice was soft, gruff with emotion but his face betrayed nothing. He strode definitely into the room his optics focused on the broken 'bot on the cot. Ratchet and Jazz stole a quick glance at each other as the large mech, gently snaked his arms beneath the slender frame and slowly lifted him like he weighed no more than a paper weight.

Prowl groaned at the movement and peered up at Lockdown and held his gaze for a moment before resting his helm against the broad chest with a soft sigh. His hand clutched onto the warm plating and he sank into Lockdown's strong arms.

Lockdown met the gazes of the other two mechs and quirked an optic ridge. "What th' spark ya starin' at? Shift yer afts." He growled gently, leading the way out of the ship. "EG yer manage t' plant 'em?"

"Yeah LD, everything's cool, ready when you are"

Optimus joined them and gave a short nod to him. "Auto - pilot is set. Let's go." His pale optics dimmed at the sight of Prowl but he restrained from comment. He gave Lockdown a subtle nod and led the way off the ship.

Death's Head

The 'bot's watched as the offending ship erupted into a ball of silent fire a safe distance from the Moon base.

"That's that then." Ratchet huffed, making his exit to check on his patient.

"There will be questions." Optimus stated softly.

Jazz gave him a soft look and gave a squeeze of his arm. "There doesn't have t' be mech. It's all groovy here. Outta EG jurisdiction." The white ninja smiled and headed to the console to rest a hand on Lockdown's tense shoulder.

"I can fly the girl LD... go see t' yer mech."

Lockdown stared at the ninja in stunned silence before quirking half a smile and strolling from the bridge, to his private quarters that he'd currently given up for Prowl. He arrived and hesitated at the door before Ratchet waved him in.

"He'll be in recharge for the trip, his injuries are severe I didn't want him awake."

Lockdown simply nodded, optics fixed onto the ninja.

Ratchet cast him a small smile. "Sit with him, talk to him. I'll be on the bridge if you need anything." The medic took a last look at Prowl and left the two mechs alone.

Lockdown dragged a chair and sat beside the berth, his good hand gently taking hold of Prowl's. "Told yer I'd get ya back. Ya just got t' live up t' that stubborn reputation o' yers and hang in there 'til the Doc can treat ya." He trailed off his optics simply taking in the sight of the mech recharging. "Aint, lettin' ya go again Prowl. I been a fool up 'til now." He gave the limp hand a soft squeeze and sighed. "No matter how long it takes, am gonna earn yer respect, yer trust... maybe one day ya'll feel the same."

The hunter fell quiet and despite every effort not to, slowly slipped into recharge.

This was exactly where Ratchet found him the next morning and didn't have the spark to wake him.


	43. Missing You

_Missing You_ by antepathy

A/N Yeah, this was written for a challenge given way back in May. Uhhh, I suck at posting? The challenge was...wait for it...'missing you.' I know, you are amazed at my originality with the title, right?

[***]

Barricade flipped through the newsfeeds impatiently. How did mechs function, only getting their information from authorized and 'legitimate' sources? Frag, it was maddening! Not only the painfully obvious fact that one was getting only part of the story, but the way the anchorbots would smile blandly and nod no matter how horrific the story—oh a botched salvage homicide in Quadrant 7, how horrible, cue chuckle and vapid comment—made Barricade doubt his sanity.

Okay, doubt it more than usual.

He had to forcibly restrain himself from comming Vortex to get the real deal behind this whole shindig was. Starting with…why Megatron had to have Blackout with him.

He wasn't worried. He wasn't worried. He wasn't worried. He kept telling himself this, hoping that sooner or later he'd start to believe it. Blackout in Iacon. Without him. Last time the copter'd been in Iacon, those slagging Neuts had tried to chopperize him.

Look, Barricade, he tried to reason with himself. You hate it when the copter worries about you. So…don't worry about the copter. Otherwise, you're nothing but a fraggin' hypocrite. An irresistibly hot little hypocrite, but a hypocrite nonetheless. And the copter would surely point that out to him, being all like…decent and honorable and stuff.

It's not that Barricade didn't trust Blackout; he just didn't trust anyone inside the city limits of Iacon. Especially not after his last run in. Seriously: Three times he'd been in Iacon—trying to unheist Skywarp's heistiness; on the abortive date; and on his recent little…endeavor. Three out of three experiences rated as 'sucky'. So…he had like 100% probability to worry.

Change of scenery, that's what he needed. Sitting around here, flopped on the repair-cradle that doubled as their couch (it was pretty awesome for snuggling, which he really didn't want to think about right now, you know, being NOT snuggled against the large warm frame), flipping from newsfeed chan to chan, frankly, was spinning him up. In the bad way. In the Barricade's-got-to-stab-something way.

Right. Change of scenery.

Unfortunately, Barricade was more or less on autopilot so he found himself…at Inamorato. Because, yeah, going to where Blackout normally works is really going to shake the lonelies. Barricade, you are low-wattage when it comes to relationships. Seriously. Still he was here, and they served high grade and the two might come together in some way that would blank his processor.

He stomped through the door, glaring at the Autobot bouncer on duty. Fraggin' Autobot. Fraggin' Iacon.

"Ohhh, hello, handsome," Sunstorm simpered, leaning against the newel post of the banister leading to the upstairs rooms. "You're looking a little lonel—aach!" Sunstorm's hands grabbed at his throat, as Barricade pinned him against the wall.

"NOT in the mood," Barricade snapped. He dropped the saffron-colored jet.

"Uhhh, maybe later?" Sunstorm gasped, dropping to the floor. "You're hot when you're angry."

Barricade glared at him before turning and storming under the curtained arch into the bar.

Barricade tapped his talons impatiently until Arcee took his order. She placed the high grade down in front of him, precisely in the center of a little frilly circular mat. When the frag did they get those? He stared at the mat. Getting mad at a frilly coaster made no sense, but at least it beat missing the copter. Which ached. Painfully.

"Are you all right?" Arcee's voice cut into his contemplation of exactly how many ways he could turn the frilly little coaster thingie into a weapon.

He looked up. "Me? Yeah. Fine." Right. Not even you believe that, Barricade.

"He'll be fine," Arcee said, pretending to casually wipe down some glasses.

"What? Oh, him? Yeah. Whatever." Barricade slugged his high grade.

"Whatever?" Her blue optics glinted with amusement. Barricade had not yet gotten used to looking at blue optics and not wanting to stab them. Ooops. Readjustment issues. "You miss him."

"I trust him," he said, hotly. Yeah, the last worry on his mind was Blackout interfacing with another mech.

"Of course you do," Arcee said, blandly. "I simply said you missed him."

Oh. Barricade placed his cube down, deliberately off center of the coaster. He couldn't think of anything to say. And stabbing was starting to seem viable. Not sensible, but...meh. Sensible cause and effect was way overrated.

"He missed you terribly when you disappeared." A nice, neutral verb. What she meant was 'ran out on' or 'bailed on'.

OH the urge to stab just spiked. Yeah, all Barricade needed was for her to travel agent a guilt trip for him. "I…I know." He didn't want to think about that. He really didn't want to think about the copter feeling, well, the way he was feeling right now. Funny how in combat he'd never worried about Blackout. In combat, the copter could take care of himself. But in Iacon…. "Just don't get why Megatron needed him for this. Copter's got a good job. With you." The closest he'd come to complimenting this place, and that only because Blackout loved his job here.

Arcee shrugged. "I'm not one to have an opinion. Some Decepticon thing."

"I haff opinion," Strika muttered, rumbling up behind Barricade. "Ve haff to make show of ztrenkth. Ze Zentinel Prime is no fool."

Actually, Barricade thought, he IS a fool. But that's probably why Megatron needed a show of strength. His optics flicked back to the posh main door through the curtained archway, to where Brawn rocked back and forth on his pedes. A lightbulb went on. "Lugnut gone, too?"

"Yes," Strika sighed. "You cannot ztop him vhen Megatron commands."

Barricade grunted sympathetically, draining the last of his high grade. Nope. The stuff had barely made a dent in his bad mood. "Another," he muttered at Arcee.

"You do not like not to know he is zafe."

Barricade ducked his head, anticipating where this went next. "Yeah, yeah, I know. Been through a war and all."

"Iz not vhat I mean at all." Strika tilted her head at Arcee. "Iz on ze house."

Great, it was official: Barricade was a loser. Getting charity-high grade. Frag. Only one way to fix the sting of that wound—get so overcharged he didn't remember it. He moved to slug this cube, too, but Strika laid a heavy hand on his forearm.

"You vant to be overcharged vhen he returnz?"

Frag. No. He wanted ridiculously hot coptersex when Blackout returned. He grumbled. "Just don't like not knowing what's going on."

"Iz uncomfortable, yes." She hooked one of her fingers in his elbow joint. "You come vith me." He snatched his cube—hey, pity or not, it was his—and stumbled alongside her longer strides back to her office. She plopped a chair next to hers behind the desk and called up a monitor. "Ve vatch secure channels," she explained.

Not the public ones that were all he and Blackout could afford. Fine. He took it for what it was worth: charity, perhaps, but from someone who knew him. And what he needed. He needed to know. He lay the cube on the desk, leaning forward, optics studying the monitor.

Strika called up a panel, and input a code that Barricade caught only half of. Slag. He was losing his touch. Still it narrowed it down. You know, in case it ever became expedient to hack her office or something.

The screen flickered through a number of colors, before settling on a grayscale feed that looked like it was taken from a ceiling some place. It took Barricade a moment before it clicked. Frag, he hadn't seen one of these in ages. Spybugs. Ancient stuff. And not ancient in that 'creepy mysterious super advanced race' kind of way: ancient in that 8-track player 'how the hell did people live like this' kind of way.

Is this what they were reduced to? Frag.

He was about to complain when into the viewfield of the little espionage device walked Megatron, flanked on either side, in perfect lockstep, by Lugnut and Blackout.

Barricade's capacitor skipped. Frag. Blackout was HOT. He looked so different, olive crest scrunched low over his set optics, his stride evenly matched with Lugnut's, long arms swinging. He looked…dangerous. Intimidating. A way he'd never looked at Barricade. Barricade felt his interface systems kick on with a wash of heat. He looked sheepishly over at Strika, to see if she'd heard the noise. If she had, she was being really subtle about it.

Still, he looked safe as he progressed down the hall. Barricade tried to force himself to feel reassured. He did feel reassured—he'd feel better if he could actually touch Blackout, but seeing him on the screen was close enough. But something…something kept niggling at the back of his cortex. Something wasn't right. "Something's going to go down," he muttered, his talons clutching at the cube. Something is going to go down and I'm fraggin' HERE.

"Zey are meeting vith Zentinel Magnus," Strika said. "Ze entire Elite Guard is keeping vatch."

Yeah, the entire Elite Guard, the Decepticons' Friends. That made Barricade feel a whole lot better. Especially when he saw the white Autobot that had been with Sentinel Magnus at the museum. "Trust the Elite Guard even less than I trust Roller Force," he muttered.

Whatever General Strika was going to respond got cut off as the screen suddenly went white, then black, then staticky. Barricade's spark felt like it guttered, falling somewhere into his feet. Oh frag oh frag oh frag. Sometimes, he told himself, being right about this kind of thing really sucks.

He jumped up.

"Vere you go, Barricade?" Strika said. "The Elite Guard—"

"Can frag themselves sideways with Sentinel Magnus's chin," Barricade snapped. "Going to help Blackout."

[***]

He probably—he wasn't in the mood to do the slaggin' math but he filed it away as a good math problem to throw on the copter's next quiz—broke groundspeed records on his way to Iacon. Certainly his horn hadn't gotten a workout like this in orbital cycles. Nor had his…ummm…saltier vocabulary. He was kinda glad Blackout wasn't with him to hear it. Then again, he'd give anything to get a lecture from the copter right about now—even the perpetually perky public newschans were awkward and somber, reporting that a series of vehicle bombs had gone off in central Iacon and that traffic was blocked from accessing the central city.

Right. Try me. They could blockade all they wanted, but no one was going to keep Primus's forgotten son from getting to his copter.

He skidded around the first set of barriers, going up on his right side tires to dodge the surprised Autobot guard, but for the second, you know, what with the rolling and screaming fan club threatening to arrest him—for his own safety of course, because that's how Autobots roll—he had to employ less obvious measures. Subtlety. The spice of life and bane of mission expediency.

He slipped into an alley, throwing himself bipedal and clambering up the wall at the back, dropping down heavily on the other side. Vaguely reassured that Iacon's alleys were dirty, just like Kaon's. See? You aren't so much better than us.

Before the nearest pursuer could pop his head over, Barricade was down the alley and doubled back up the next street. Too easy. The closer he got, he knew, the better the guards would be. These mechadingos were simply civil patrol, toy soldiers. Up closer, he'd have some actual competition.

He slipped from shadow to shadow, his spark shifting uneasily as the shadows began to flicker, quivering and writhing from a massive conflagration ahead. If he could have put out a fire by force of bad language alone, the thing would have died to embers.

A block before the Magnus's hall, Barricade headed for rooftops. As he'd suspected, he spotted more than one mech with an Elite Guard brassard, all pointing outward. Because, of course, no possible chance that an attack might come from within the Hall. Fraggin' idiots.

He waited, hating the delay, hating not knowing what was going on inside the hall. He tried to convince himself the Guard had already secured the Hall itself, that Blackout was safe.

Yeah, right. Autobots. They couldn't secure a leaky hose.

He leapt from roof to roof, coming in behind the unsightly backside all buildings, no matter how public, had, before dropping down onto a pile of bagged up trash waiting for pickup. Silky shiny Autobots probably couldn't imagine a mech with ill intentions stooping to land on trash. Good thing Barricade had…good intentions. Well, where Blackout was concerned. Slag anyone else.

He clambered out of the pile of bags and…right into the muzzles of a handful of pulse rifles. The mechs who held them weren't Elite Guard, but…one didn't need Secret Ninjutsu Training to pull a trigger from an arm's length away. Slag.

Guess things were going to have to get...fun. His optics spread wide into a wide vid field, his mouth spreading into a grin.

[***]

"This!" Sentinel raged. "Is obviously a set up! You set out to sabotage our meeting!"

"If I had set out," Megatron said, coolly, "to sabotage a meeting, I assure you, my dear Autobot, that it would be well and truly sabotaged. This? This is the work of flailing amateurs." As is everything you do, Megatron added silently. "And if I wanted this meeting not to have happened…I would have simply refused. I, for one," he said, pointedly, "have better uses of my evening than this."

"That's precisely what I'd expect a guilty mech to say," Sentinel retorted, "to try and build an alibi."

Megatron rolled his optics, finding himself almost longing for the Good Old Days where the only egotism he had to contend with was Starscream's. And at least Starscream was…diverting to look at. And a little more engaging mentally. This Sentinel had every symptom of a dullard and a bully. He could not believe he had had to ally with such a wretch. "My alibi is that I am here to have a discussion about Autobot intervention in Kaon affairs." Behind him, his two bodyguards, handpicked for their enormous bulk and miniscule brains, shifted uneasily. He watched, amused, as Sentinel's optics flicked nervously between the pair of them. Well, Megatron thought smugly, he should. Lugnut and Blackout literally embodied 'loyalty to a fault.' Something that, he had come to realize, Sentinel Magnus himself did not attract at all.

"Yes, well," Sentinel puffed. "I see only necessary involvement."

"I see meddling."

"I am the Magnus! Nothing I do is meddling! Everything I do is for the greater peace of Cybertron."

"The greater piece of Cybertron," Megatron echoed. "Which is, of course, all property of The Magnus."

Sentinel nodded officiously before his optics clouded, sensing the sheathed insult.

"And what," Megatron asked, kicking one leg up to rest the ankle across the other knee, "do you intend to do for the greater peace. Considering you cannot even secure your paltry Iacon?"

"We have the Elite Guard," Sentinel said, pointing to the immaculate white mech leaning, arms folded, in the corner, optics hidden behind a blue visor. Oh yes, thought Megatron. Jazz veritably seethes with competence. All…one of him.

"Indeed," he said, smoothly. "However, I seem to recall that the Elite Guard's numbers have been…," he moued sympathetically, "severely diminished by the recent unpleasantness." He raised his optics insolently to Sentinel.

Sentinel quivered, his gaudy chassis heaving as he tried to summon some suitably bloviating retort, when the doors behind him were flung open, a panicked mech bursting through, his armor stained and specked with rust from where he'd been bound with old chains.

"Sentinel Magnus, sir!" he gasped, doubled over. "We have an intruder!"

"Oh," Megatron said, enjoying the openmouthed shock on Sentinel's face, "your Elite Guard. How I have missed their competence."

[***]

This, Barricade thought, sourly, from where he perched in the ventilation duct, could go on forever. Nothing quite as ponderous and dull as two ginormous tungsten-alloyed egos ramming at each other. Frag. They should get a room. He shifted his position, his optics searching out Blackout. The copter stood by, either bored senseless or completely hung up in his role. Copter took his job seriously.

But look. He's safe. He's safe. Relax. Barricade felt some of his restlessness ebb. He wished he believed in that woo woo nonsense these ninjabots allegedly did. He'd give anything to be able to reach out and touch the copter. He had the comm freq but…yeah. That would be like admitting he was a little crazy. Oh hey Blackout. Look up. No, a little to the left. Little more. Little more. Okay, there. I stalked you here.

Fraggin' copter would ditch him so fast his last words would dopplershift.

He shifted his position, drying energon itching into his claws. It had been a real act of will, and far more than the fraggin' wannabe Elities deserved for him NOT to just up and kill them, but, well, he didn't know how this would go down; he KNEW Onslaught wouldn't cover his aft again, especially not for yet another rogue mission; and frag, the copter must be rubbing off on him because he couldn't justify killing them because they hadn't really done anything to deserve it. And now. Frag.

He'd probably live to regret that act of 'mercy'. But right now, it was worth everything to see Blackout safe and looming ominously, optics tracking Sentinel's every move. And to know that he was here to help in case things went even further down.

He'd spotted a bit of...what might be evidence on his way in. Which honked him off because it meant he'd have to take it to Onslaught to have it interpreted, so his whole little emo-tantrum would come to light sooner or later. Which would be its usual brand of Onslaught's Very Special Un-Awesome. Still, he was a jerk but he knew better than to lie to Onslaught. Especially about this kind of thing. He'd taken flashsnaps like crazy. Here, I bring you evidence. Chew on conspiracy theories rather than my aft. For a change. One thing he could tell even without the spectrum analysis a full intel lab could pull from his cortical memory was that this was not a Decepticon job. It had all the hallmarks of an alien attack to him. Including the inability to follow up on what was obviously chaos.

Which made him wonder what the motive was. Maybe it was just chaos. But it couldn't just be an accident that so many of the bombs had gone off near the Magnus's hall. And the timing was pretty slaggin' fishy too. The first meeting Megatron had in Iacon? Barricade wondered what the real topic of the meeting was supposed to be. Both of the leaders were sniping around each other, slapping ego to ego. Which was obviously not the real agenda—they could have done that just as well from vidscreens.

No. There had to be some reason they had to come face to face. Ewww, not that, you randy little freak.

Before he could think about that further—beyond how he didn't want to think about thinking about THAT, the delegation broke up. Apparently the little disturbance he caused was the last sprocket. Good enough! He rejoiced. Time for everyone to blow this cyberclambake. Time, moreover, for hot coptersex.

The thought struck him—and it was a bad thought, that struck kind of like a wet rag splat across the windscreen—that Lugnut, Megatron and Blackout could all fly. And he…could not. Which mean Blackout would be home before he got there. And…that would suck. In ways he didn't want to think about. Copterhotness ways. More than that, copter-worrying ways.

Frag.

He slithered on his belly down the ventilation shaft, his shoulder tires engaged against the duct's low ceiling, pulling him along. Not pleasant, but fast. He had to get out of the building before the copter did. He popped out into the abandoned corridor he'd crawled in on, feeling a brief flare of competence. Oh look Barricade, something you didn't frag up: didn't get lost in the vent ducts. Yay you. You know what your prize is for that? NOTHING. Because that's basic sparkling competence. Now stop patting yourself on the back kibble, or more likely, beating yourself up about not fragging stuff up and GET OUT of here! Before, you know, you frag something up.

He bolted down the disused corridor, pausing at the window at the end. Something…wasn't right. The same feeling he'd had that something was about to go down was…back up.

Barricade narrowed his optics, scanning the area, easing the window open. He found nothing. Then again, he didn't know what this place usually looked like so trying to spot what was out of place was impossible. Right, option B: if he were to plot some Dirty Business, where would he have it go down?

He picked three spots that were likely for snipers. One, far left, a little almost gully of an alley between buildings, the pavement sunk down. Two, almost directly in front of the main door—too clear a shot, really, so he discounted it. Third, right side, two stories up. A window that gaped open. Frag, frag and frag.

Nothing to do but wait. Exit plans, forgotten. Barricade was going to listen to his inner systems this time. They'd never let him down.

Below him to left, a door cycled open. His intakes halted, as he saw Blackout and Lugnut, in perfect combat synchrony, step out. Megatron followed, after, presumably, one last barb at Sentinel.

Barricade's tension spiked. He balanced himself on the window frame, glad for once of his slight stature. Blackout would barely be able to fit out the window, much less be able to squat on the frame. Come on come ON, he thought.

And it came. From the left, from the gully, the flash of what had to be a rifle sight catching in the security lights by the door. Aiming to hit Megatron but the round's path would go...straight through Blackout.

Barricade moved without thinking, launching himself into the air as though he could fly. The laser rifle cracked the air. He landed, hard, on Blackout's shoulder, knocking him to the ground, just as the the shot sailed over, clipping Barricade's heel. He heard Lugnut shout, and then the sound of Lugnut racing toward the sniper's location, his feet tearing chunks of pavement as he ran.

Blackout shoved him off, roughly, and Barricade looked up to see the mech's forearm guns aimed at him for…less than a klik before the red optics blinked, startled, quivering. "Barricade?"

He didn't care. Didn't care if Megatron got hit. DIdn't care that he was leaking energon and his pain net was flaring angrily at him for the heel-shot. Didn't care that this probably looked…really bad. All he cared about was that Blackout was safe.

In a classic case of Too Fraggin' Little, Too Fraggin' Late, the Elite Guard burst through the door, bristling weapons.

"I got him, bossmech," the white ninja said, obviously on comm, as he sidled to Barricade. "I got the attacker."

"Not the attacker," Blackout said, his optics unreadable. "He saved me—Megatron. He saved Lord Megatron."

Barricade blinked. Did…Blackout…just…lie? For HIM? He felt something that may have been the prickle of tears.

"He's not on the list you sent us," another guard said. "You requested only these two."

Megatron gave something that may have been as much sneer as smirk. "Yes. I requested that many. In some instances, I do not wish to be hampered by such…tedious paperwork." His optics glinted. "Had my agent been on the list, he would not have been able to perform his duties as effectively. As effectively as…saving my life. From your security perimeter breach." Definitely a smirk by the end, but Barricade was too in awe at the glossy smooth magnitude of the lies as they rolled off their leader's vocalizer to react. His…agent? Megatron didn't even know who he was! At best he'd seen the 'con insignia on Barricade's chassis.

Blackout stooped to pull Barricade to his feet. "Sorry," Blackout murmured. "And sorry I gotta play dumb right now." Meaning, no copterhug. Fine. Barricade balanced awkwardly on his injured foot, not trusting himself to do more than nod in acknowledgement.

Jazz's visor gazed pointedly at Barricade. Doubtless, Barricade thought, remembering him from the museum escapade. Jazz was a little faster on the uptake than Sentinel. "Your…agent," he repeated, dubious.

Barricade managed a saucy grin. Delirium that Blackout was safe and that Megatron wasn't ripping his head off, which meant that Onslaught would probably not rip his head off either was making him a bit giddy. "Agent," he echoed.

Megatron nodded. "I have not gotten where I am, Elite Guard, by trusting only one line of defense."

Lugnut swore, lumbering back at them with a sparking half-frame of a mech dangling from his claw hand. "My lord! They succeeded in escaping!" He brandished the grey frame. "I...uh...attempted to take a prisoner."

Megatron's expression was aggrieved, but he forced a patient tone. "You did...very well, Lugnut. As always." Lugnut perked up under the compliment.

"Thank you, Lord Megatron!" He attempted to salute, the dangling limbs from the offlined mech thwacking him in the face.

"We shall take this as evidence, of course."

"It shall stay here, in Iacon!" Sentinel stood in the doorway, silhouetted by the light behind him, hands on hips, looking, presumably, heroic. After the fact, of course. When it was safe to show his face. "This attack took place in Iacon and thus is an Autobot affair."

"The attempt was on my life," Megatron said, coolly. "Which means that the investigation is my business."

Sentinel puffed again. Barricade growled. Not again. His foot was hurting and leaking a disturbingly large pink puddle onto the ground. The giddiness was fading, probably leaking from his foot. This would take all night if something didn't happen. He didn't have that much giddy—or energon.

"If you control the evidence," Barricade snapped, "It certainly looks like you're covering for a conspiracy." He shrugged, as Sentinel's outraged optics lit upon him. "Just saying how it looks." The blue optics glared at him. He swiveled all four of his to meet them, knowing how unsettling the effect could be. One thing he liked about the copter—Blackout thought his optics were cool. It was, he remembered—what a slaggin' weird time to remember this one—that was the first sign he'd ever had that the copter was interested. A random comment he overheard. He blinked at the memory.

"He's got a point, bossbot," Jazz said. Barricade's favorite kind of Autobot: unhappy but sensible.

He liked it more when Sentinel's face wore the same expression.

[***]

"Not upset that you got hurt, are you?" Blackout was kneeling on the floor of their apartment, the field kit open next to him. Barricade winced as the cleanser stung into the wound. He lay sprawled on the repair cradle. It had been...a loooooong night. First a debriefing on the trip back by Megatron himself. Yeah, any chance Barricade had of being Mr Disappear Into the Woodwork? Gone. THEN an especially grueling round of fun times with Onslaught and Vortex, who had only asked the obvious questions—so, why were you there again, Barricade?-when they wanted to rile him up. They both knew exactly why he was there. Fraggers. The both of them. Onslaught had offered him treatment, but Barricade had pulled himself up and insisted he was fine and limped out of there, leaving a leaking trail of dignity.

They could spend the rest of the wee hours speculating about Neuts and Gypsies and Quintessons (oh my!) if they wanted: Barricade had different priorities.

"No," he said, quietly, watching the olive crest furrow in concentration as Blackout worked a pair of pliers into the bent armor to fasten the hose clamp to stop the leak "Sorry I had such a lame endgame. As usual." Throwing himself bodily at the copter wasn't exactly a prize-winning strategy. Well, not for THAT kind of prize.

Blackout looked up, a tentative grin on his face. "Field expedient."

Barricade tried to grin back, but the smile faded. "Uh...sorry I, you know, stalked you all the way over there. Not cool." Just couldn't take knowing something was happening. War's fine, but watching helpless from the sidelines? Barricade couldn't do that.

Blackout lay the pliers down, taking one of Barricade's hands. "I'm not sorry."

"It's, uh, not that I don't trust you, though. I mean. You can handle yourself. It's just that...frag. I, uh, missed you." He lowered his gaze. Barricade, you suck at relationships. Pretty sure that 'I missed you so I followed you and watched you through a ventilation duct' was fairly high on the scale of crazy.

Blackout's optics glowed. He lay the pliers aside and clambered onto the repair cradle. Barricade sighed as the heavy arms wrapped around him. "Good thing you didn't miss when it counted," Blackout said, quietly, squirming down for a kiss.


	44. Awake

A/N: Don't worry we haven't forgotten! We have some nice plotty goodness coming up. In the meantime have some Prowl x Lockdown!

Awake by: Optimus Bob

The soft whirs of the machines were the first things to creep into his audio. He had no idea how long he'd been lying there, just listening, waiting for some movement, a voice, anything. He couldn't figure out why he hadn't been inclined to on line his optics, but every time he initiated his sub-routines to do just that, his processor entered into a feedback loop and forced him unconscious once more.

Now he just lay, waiting, not entirely sure where he was lying or why every time he tried to wake up he had, what a human would describe as a panic attack. Something had obviously happened but try as he might; he had no recollection of anything past boarding a transport with Optimus to visit Sari and Bumblebee on Earth. Giving in to the urge to try again and to boredom, Prowl activated his sub-routines to on line his optics once more. He was suddenly filled with an intense processor ache as recharge stole his consciousness away and a soft frustrated murmur escaped his vocaliser. "Not again…"

_The room was dark, he could hear activity in the next room and there was a thin sliver of light peeking out from beneath the door. He tried to move but it was to no avail, he was securely strapped down, much to the complaint of his joints. His spark lurched as the door opened and he shrank back against the thin padding of the berth. A shadowy figure entered the small room and approached him, he heard a despairing whimper leave his own vocaliser and he was filled with an absolute terror as the large shadow whispered his name and leaned over him._

It had been the same every night, the mech thrashed and mewled on the berth, his visor dark, his processor still deeply in recharge. Sometimes Ratchet had even had to relent and strap the slender mech down to prevent him from hurting himself. Tonight though there was just him. Ratchet had told him to try not to touch him or hold him just in case he woke up and was locked in a memory purge and mistook Lockdown for someone else.

The mech's slender fingers dug in and raked along the padding of the berth and he cried out sharply, reliving some untold nightmare that Oilslick had put him through and all Lockdown could do was stand and watch. He winced as the black and gold frame suddenly arched on the berth and keened with despair and pain.

Lockdown had had enough. It was time for Prowl to come back to reality; it was bad enough that Oilslick had trapped him in his youth and again on his ship quite recently, but Lockdown was going to be damned to the pits if Oilslick was going to claim the ninja's sanity now he'd been rescued.

Perching on the edge of the berth, he firmly, but not too hard, took hold of Prowl's arms, stilling his movements to gently call out his name in an attempt to shake him out of his recharge.

"Prowl, Prowl! Come on kid, it's not real, come back t' us, ya don't belong there…wake up kid!"

He could hear his name being whispered and the whisper grew to a worried shout, he recoiled as the shadow became a weight bearing down on him and the dark light of his spark made him turn away in horror. "No… please not this…" He could hear himself begging, shame filling his spark at the pitiful sound.

"Prowl, come on! Prowl!"

The shouts became more urgent, more insistent and he became filled with a deep set anger, with a snarl he shoved back at the shadowy assailant and pushed himself up, intent on his escape only to find himself panting heavily against a warm chassis dimly lit by warm soft lighting, strong arms wrapping about his lithe frame, holding him close.

"It's alright kid; I got ya… ya safe now."

Prowl blinked and shakily clung onto the green and black frame, he knew that voice. Memories of his recharge faded into shadow and he peered up at the familiar white maw looking down at him with concern.

"Lockdown…?" His voice sounded painfully thin, weak. Prowl frowned what in the All Spark was going on? He pushed back from Lockdown's tight embrace and scanned over himself in confusion. He stared at the energon drips and the pliable metal covering his repaired plating. The dull coloured metal was there for protection while his self repair programs integrated the new plating beneath. His brow creased and he looked back at the hunter. "Safe from what?"

"What do ya mean he doesn't remember anythin', doc?" Jazz's face was grim; his arms folded over his chest as Ratchet sighed deeply and repeated his diagnosis.

"Exactly what I said. He doesn't remember the attack, any of it."

"But he's havin' memory purges every night." Lockdown interrupted his voice unnaturally quiet.

"You're here _every _night?" Optimus replied his brow knitted in concern.

"What of it, hot shot?"

Ratchet growled and immediately stepped in-between the two mechs, sensing the growing tension. He shot a subtle glance at Jazz who simply shook his head with a flicker of his visor, equivalent to a human rolling their eyes. "Now that's enough you two. I didn't stand for your mech egos before and I'm not standing for it in my med bay. Prowl needs all of us to be on the same page right now. You are both his friends, regardless of your feelings for the 'bot –"

"–Ratchet!" Optimus countered in startled surprise, instantly silencing when the medic shot him a dark glare.

"_Regardless _of your mutual feelings for him, at least try to act like you don't hate each other. That mech doesn't need either of your slag right now."

The two mechs ducked their optics sheepishly and turned away from each other. Optimus folded his arms and went to stand by Jazz who looked more than a little uncomfortable at the situation.

Lockdown glowered, his ruby optics narrow and staring off into the med bay, focused on the black and gold mech smiling down at the chattering red haired vision of Sari, who every so often would cling to his plating in a tight hug. The sight of the bike alive and more or less well made his spark leap in his chest. He was filled with a deep sense of relief but also worry as to where to go from here. Being apart from the dark mech made his chest hurt, he could barely stand to have him out of his sight and to think what Oilslick did and almost did to him made the energon in his very body, boil with rage.

He pushed the thoughts of the despicable mech out of his mind, taking Ratchet's words to spark. Prowl was the most important thing to him right now and he wanted to be the one to be there for him to help him through it.

If he was allowed.

"Can we see him now doc?" Jazz enquired softly.

Ratchet nodded. "Not all at once though, he's still a little shaken by his memory loss, I've given him as much detail as I thought he could handle at this point. Everything else will eventually come back to him."

"Will it though?" Optimus glanced back at Ratchet, whose stern optics softened a touch at the question.

"I honestly don't know. He seems to remember bits when he's recharging but its gone when he's online, it's like his processor is trying to protect itself." He shrugged with a weary sigh.

Optimus nodded and let Jazz and Ratchet into the med bay first. Turning to the taller mech he placed a firm hand on his chest. "Not all at once, Lockdown. You can visit later, Prowl needs to be with friends."

Lockdown growled softly at the cold tone of the normally placid Prime, squaring up to the red and blue mech he prodded him sharply in the windscreen. "What th' spark's yer problem?"

"You are…" Optimus averted his gaze briefly before meeting the intense red optics. "You're my problem, Prowl deserves better and you know it."

Lockdown let out a short, humourless laugh. "Ya mean you. He deserves a mech like you right?"

"I didn't say that."

"Ya didn't have to mech. But let me tell ya somethin' right now and ya better listen good kid because I'm only gonna say it the once." His voice dropped a note as he leaned into Optimus's audio. "Prowl is his own mech, he belongs t' no one ya hear me? Ya try t' coddle him from this and ya'll lose him fer good, as it is all yer doin' is ruining the opportunity ya got with another who does actually feel that way about ya."

Lockdown drew back with a grim smirk on his distinctive white face. "Ya only get t' break a mech's spark once, OP, I'd open yer optics before ya lose both o' the mechs that mean the most t' ya."

With that final burst of wisdom, Lockdown snorted with disdain at the dumbfounded Prime and brushed past him without another word and headed for his ship, the only other place his spark felt at ease.

"Why are you hiding from me?"

Lockdown spluttered and spat out his high grade onto the floor of his ship. "Fer frag's sake, Prowl, ya shouldn't sneak up on a mech like that!" He grumbled, instantly distracting himself with cleaning up the spilled fluid.

"I'm sorry; I didn't mean to startle you."

Lockdown winced at the hoarse sounding ninja, his normally rich voice laced with static. Quickly he cleared out his comfiest seat and bustled about the bridge to brew him some energon tea. "Sit yer self down, kid, does Ratchet know yer out of the med bay?"

Prowl took the seat gratefully, a mark of his fatigue that he didn't try to argue against it. Lockdown looked him over worriedly before turning his attention to the energon.

"Um… if I say no will you make me go back?"

Lockdown laughed out loud and handed Prowl the hot cube of ener-tea. "Frag no kid, stay as long as yer like. I wouldn't force ol' bucket head's company on anyone." His spark fluttered as Prowl gave him a small tired smile, his pert mouth quietly sipping at the hot fluid. "So, uh… what brings ya here?"

Prowl gazed into his cube, his visor flickering faintly. "I haven't been completely honest with everyone."

Lockdown froze at the revelation, hoping that Prowl wasn't going to suddenly spill his spark out in front of him. Learning exactly what had happened to him would probably get their prisoner dismembered. He struggled to find his voice, lowering his cube, managing to force out a quite; "- Oh?"

"Mm, I remember part of what happened." Prowl glanced up in time to see terrified red optics averting his gaze. His mouth tugged upwards at the corner. "Don't worry I don't remember anything about what happened with… with Oilslick." He inhaled deeply, hesitating until the hunter met his gaze. "I remember you…"

"What?" Lockdown shook his helm in confusion. "Prowl…I…"

"Lockdown, relax."

The hunter clamped his mouth shut when Prowl smiled at him once more. The smile was barely there but he could he hear the genuine reassurance in the mech's strained voice.

"I remember the moment of my rescue. I remember Jazz being there and I heard Ratchet's voice but I remember being lifted up and I remember you and some of the things you said to me via comm. when you were carrying me back to your ship."

Lockdown stared, mortified at the slender mech. His spark pounded in his chest. He hadn't told anyone he'd opened a private comm. to the injured mech. All he'd wanted to do was to make sure Prowl had been at ease and hadn't panicked in his arms, frag it all to the pits he couldn't remember anything he'd said to the ninja. This must be what it felt like to have your spark exposed on a platter for all the world to see.

Was he ready for Prowl to know his true feelings? What if the ninja had only come to see him to let him down lightly, do the decent thing? Lockdown wasn't sure he'd be able to handle that rejection so soon after almost losing Prowl for good.

"I wanted to say thank you." Prowl continued oblivious to the turmoil raging behind Lockdown's optics. "It was your voice that kept me from letting go that day… I… I'm not certain how I'm going to overcome what happened, seeing that I don't remember it but I know now that what you did when you attacked Oilslick, you were only trying to help and I'm sorry for what I said to you back at Inamorato."

Lockdown deflated; this was not like any rejection he'd ever heard. His optics glowed fondly as Prowl tripped over his words; the mech was as awkward with emotional displays as he was. His spark fluttered and without thinking he gently took the cube from Prowl's hand and never once taking his optics off the mech that held his spark – whether he knew or liked it, or not – he gently clasped the slender digits with his own hand a thumb brushing over the back of his hand. "Ya don't have anythin' t' apologise for, Prowl. I'm just glad yer alright and I hope that yer know that I'm not just playin' ya when I tell ya that I care about ya."

Lockdown's voice was gruff with emotion and he tore his gaze away from the piercing blue visor and focused on their entwined fingers.

Nothing was said for a short while and Lockdown started to fret he'd over stepped his boundaries and said too much, again. That was until Prowl broke the silence for him.

"I know." Came the soft reply.

Lockdown's gaze shot up to meet the soft azure glow of the ninja's visor. His spark filled with something, he didn't know what, but it felt damn good and he gave the hand in his grasp a gentle squeeze as a fond smile spread slowly across his stark features.


	45. The Best Reason

A/N More Blackout/Barricade fluff. Short little oneshot of fluffy cuteness here.

The Best Reason by antepathy

Barricade whisked the Café Outrage bags under the cabinet as he heard the door to their cube code open. Yeah, he had no chance of passing the food off as anything like what he could do, which was more in the realm of, you know, heating up ration packs. But if Blackout saw the bags first he'd start asking questions about the expense. Not in a bad way—Blackout was always the one pushing that they should 'live a little', and with Barricade's own income, added to Blackout's, and both of their veterans' stipends, well, yeah, they could totally afford a splurge like this.

And they needed a splurge right now: Blackout had been doing double shifts between his usual job at Inamorato, and doing security duties for Megatron. Blackout would never complain, of course, but the tension was showing. Copter needed a night to relax and…you know. Get some wild hot coptersex.

Frag yeah. Coptersex…. Barricade's thoughts drifted for a klik, only to come back as he heard the copter's approach.

Right: the point was, this was free splurge. Which to Barricade, was the best kind. Onslaught had asked him to name a small reward for his, you know, not-so-small role in saving Megatron's life from the assassination attempt. And yeah, maybe it did look weird to ask for a voucher for a fancy-schmancy caterer and a night off for both of them as a reward, but, so what? Barricade considered it as a thumb to the nasal plating at Onslaught, a statement that he was definitely Still With the Copter.

Not that Onslaught had ever even obliquely referred back to, you know, that one time, but Barricade still felt himself on edge every time he was alone with the Combaticon commander. So any invocation of Blackout was a good thing.

And Bonecrusher's cooking, he hated to admit, was a wonderful thing. Frag, who knew the hideous mine-destroyer could do anything useful? Still, Bonecrusher had handed over the bags with only minimal disgust, but noting that this time he had included utensils so that Barricade could at least _pretend_ not to be a complete savage. Yeah, whatever. Barricade was tempted to eat the food with his face right there in the shop, maybe smear it over his chassis for good measure.

But then he'd thought of Blackout and had restrained himself. Which had led him to the depressing possibility that Blackout was…really starting to change him. He did not know if this was a good thing or not.

What was a good thing—a very big and very sexy and sheepishly good thing—was Blackout, who was blinking in the doorway, his olfactory sensors quivering at the smell of the food. Barricade stifled a grin. Already working. Project Destress the Copter was going forth on all cylinders.

"What's…all this?"

"This," Barricade said, grinning, "is food." He'd laid it out according to Bonecrusher's rather lengthy and testy instructions, by the number, setting a few on heat pods and one container in a chiller. Not because he gave half a frag about Bonecrusher's persnickety notions of haute cuisine, but because he wanted maximum deliciousness for the copter.

"Uhhh, yeah. I know that. I mean like…what's it for?"

"Uhhhh, eating?" Barricade shrugged. Yeah, he had no idea what half the stuff was called. He'd just told Bonecrusher to whip up something extra-delicious with a side of scrumptious. And from the looks of the contents of the cartons he'd spread out on the counter, Bonecrusher had thrown in the chi-chi decorations and garnishes and stuff as a bonus. "I don't know. It's delicious. That's all you need to know." Well, it was all he needed to know, at any rate.

"Yeah, but, I mean, like…why?"

And just like that, all the suave, charming, really sexy speeches Barricade had practiced, to explain how much the copter meant to him, and how he couldn't ever say it enough and he'd hoped that this would at least help Blackout to understand…kinda fell out of Barricade's vocalizer and clattered to the floor at his feet. "I, uhh,…for you?" he squeaked. Then gritted his optics shut. Frag, that sounded stupid. Face it, Barricade, you are SO not romance material.

The optics under the copter's olive crest quivered. "You, uhhh, don't have to do stuff like this."

"Yeah, I know. Just…you know?" LAME, Barricade. He turned and grabbed for a plastic tray Bonecrusher had labeled '1' and thrust it toward the copter. "Here."

Blackout took the tray obediently, blinking. He looked worried, his rotors drooping. "Barricade?" he asked, quietly. "I'm super sorry."

It was Barricade's turn to blink, surprised. "Sorry for what?" He felt his spark sink. Did…Blackout have bad news? It would totally be Barricade's luck that he'd make this big deal surprise feast just as Blackout finally realized he could do so much better and ditched him. Maybe Blackout finally realized that Barricade, you know, stalking him halfway across the planet to Iacon made him…less-than-sane-or-terrific relationship material. Barricade snatched one of the fried energon sticks from the tray and crammed it in his mouth, barely tasting it, determined to get some of it down before the bad news broke and ruined everything. No sense mourning on an empty tank, after all.

"I…uhh," Blackout looked around the laden counters. "It's…not your online day, or mine, so…," his head drooped. "I don't know what day it is we're celebrating and stuff. And so I, uhhh, don't have anything for you. He stared at the tray in his hands. "Not even a crummy card or nothin'."

Oh. Barricade felt his smaller set of optics prickle. Fraggin' copter. "It's not any day in particular," he said, quietly. "Nothing like that. Just, you know…I wanted to give you a good time," he finished lamely.

Blackout's mouth quivered. "You don't gotta do all this stuff for me to have a good time with you, Barricade."

Barricade ducked his head. "Yeah, I know," he mumbled. Well he didn't really know that. It seemed to make good sense to, you know, remind the copter how much he meant. It's how you worked confidential informants, right? Gotta keep reminding them what they get out of it too.

Wow, Barricade. That's a…pretty bad analogy. But he didn't really know anything different. His entire life had been the war. Which was what made him just so…pathetically awful at this. Probably a stupid idea. His doorwings drooped.

"Just…wanted to, is all."

Blackout put the tray down carefully on the counter, and gathered Barricade up in his arms. Barricade melted against the chassis. Barricade sighed, feeling the familiar contours of Blackout's olive facial armor warm and beloved against his. "That's the best reason of all to celebrate."

_Epilogue_

Bonecrusher would have imploded at the wreck they made of all of his hard work—sitting on the floor, surrounded by the containers, feeding each other nibbles with their fingers. Yeah, whatever. That's what made it fun. "Your turn," Barricade said.

"Okay!" Blackout picked up the datapad and hit the random number generator. "Seven!" he said, his rotors flaring happily, as though he'd won a prize. "Uh-oh." He lifted the empty container. "We're out of seven."

Barricade leaned over. "So we are. Hunh."

"What do we do now?" The 'eating them in random order just to honk off Bonecrusher' had been Barricade's idea, so…yeah, emendations to the rules probably did belong to him, too.

Barricade grinned. "We have to substitute."

"Oh!" Blackout looked over the containers. "So like…number eight or maybe number six or since it's a prime number it should be five or something?" His crest was ridged with concentration as he stared along the row.

"Better substitution," Barricade said, pulling the copter's hand away from the datapad. "Me."

A slow grin, like a sunrise, spread over Blackout's face. The smile burned, like a mirror was catching the light of it in a place near Barricade's spark, as the copter rolled over, following Barricade's motion, looming over him. "You," Blackout said, dropping in for a fast kiss. "are the best substitution there is." A moment's hesitation. Blackout looked up, his head tilting. "Only, you're not a substitution for anything. You're just, like…the best and stuff." He looked worried. Yeah, it was a pretty awful joke, but, whatever. Of all the things he got from the copter, he could totally deal with a less-than-witty sense of humor.

"I am," Barricade grinned, wiggling one foot, which was right by the copter's interface hatch. "And I will so totally prove it."


	46. Proposal 1

A/N Okay, we're…trying to do something cool here. Wish us luck. We're going to start an arc that all of us can get in on! Weddings! Commitment angst! Drama! Bridezillas! Or…something. That's our hope. So…let's start it off!

Part one of two (two will post tomorrow)

Proposal by antepathy

"And your request is what, Lugnut?" Megatron tried not to sound impatient, but the bomber had been buttering him up for megacycles now. And while praise was nice, there was such a thing as too much of a good thing.

"Oh." Lugnut paused, startled, doubtless out of another string of warm phrases. "I, uh…wanted to ask your permission for something, Lord Megatron!"

Megatron sighed. Lugnut would ask for permission to do just about anything. It was, he knew, borne from respect, but nonetheless…. Oh well, one of the hidden burdens of leadership. And Lugnut's loyalty and combat abilities more than earned him a share of Megatron's small portion of patience. "Yes. What? If it is within my power to grant," well, within reason, but he would never make this offer to any mech but Lugnut, really, knowing that the bomber would be almost categorically incapable of abusing it, "it is yours."

Lugnut shuffled his feet, his green toes squirming against the pavement. "I, uh…would like your permission to bond with General Strika, my Lord!"

"Bond?"

"Yes, my liege. A permanent spark-linkage—"

"Yes, Lugnut," he said, testily. "I do know what one is." An exceedingly bad idea, and one that Megatron would never inflict upon himself. "With General Strika." He blanked his optics for a klik. NOT an image he wanted. He respected Strika immensely. Unlike that blasted fool Starscream, who was only good under direct supervision, Strika's loyalty was unquestioned, her abilities unmatched. And he'd rather think about her, and appreciate her…that way, thank you very much.

"Yes, my Lord!"

He had no objection. Two of his most loyal? What objection could he have? They would be extra-faithful, in fact, for his assent. It was win-win. "Has she agreed to this?"

Lugnut froze. "I…uh…thought you would do that for me?"

Megatron blinked. "I?" It was…entirely beneath his dignity. "You must ask her," he said, recovering, he thought, nicely.

"I-I? But…what if she says no? Megatron, you must order her to bond with me!" The five optics swirled, panicked.

Order her to? No. "Lugnut, you must ask her."

Lugnut quailed, his toes gouging into the pavement. "But…she might refuse me, my liege!"

"That is a risk you must take, Lugnut." He sighed. He couldn't believe he was saying this. What horrible things peacetime wrought. He saw another protest bubbling across Lugnut's face. "A warrior does not back down from a challenge," he said, curtly.

Lugnut flinched at the words, then lowered his head. "Yes, my liege." He stiffened his spine struts. "I WILL make you proud of me, my Lord, with this exercise in courage."

Oh. Primus. "You…do that, Lugnut."

[***]

Lugnut knew he was boasting when he'd spoken to Megatron. Ask General Strika, the most beautiful femme ever assembled, to bond with him? He'd rather face a dozen Omega Supremes. Single-handed. Certainly she interfaced with him. Even called him 'her little Luggies,' but what did that mean in the face of the deep and eternal bond of a…well…bond?

He wracked his cortex for ways to approach her and finally realized…his cortex was rather empty in that area. The femme area. Mysterious creatures, they were. Beautiful. Entrancing. Alluring. Dangerous. So, the sensible choice would be, of course, to solicit outside help. Particularly of the femme variety.

"You cannot tell her of my plan!" he insisted, following Madam Arcee to her private office. He had at first resisted asking an Autobot but Arcee had…intimate knowledge of General Strika that might prove valuable. And it was, indeed, a positive sign that she immediately saw the need for privacy. So he trundled after her into her office, the desk tidy, with only a holopic of Ratchet, and an apple-shaped teaching award decorating the ruthlessly functional space. A box stood open on the edge of the blotter.

"I promise that I won't say a word," Arcee murmured. She pointed him into a chair, taking one next to him. He settled himself awkwardly onto the spindly piece of furniture, lowering his large frame gingerly onto the surface as though he expected it to break. Arcee leaned over and took one of his claws in hers. "What is this about, Lugnut?"

"I…uh…I wish to approach Madam General Strika!" he said. Arcee's hands were tiny compared to his, and for a moment he couldn't help but imagine those small fingers trailing over Strika's beautiful armor.

"About…?"

"Uhhhhh." Lugnut froze. Then realized that if he couldn't say the words even to Madam Arcee, there was no way he was ready to say them to Strika.

"Lugnut. Is something wrong? Is it bad news?"

"No! No! It is not bad news!" Well, he hoped not. "I have a question I must ask her."

"So ask her. She doesn't bite, Lugnut." A wicked flash across her face. "Well, not the bad way, at any rate."

Lugnut blinked, a flush of heat rising across his cheeks. "Yes, Madam Arcee. I, uhhh, know that." He shifted on the tiny seat, feeling it teeter under his weight.

"You could ask me and I could ask her for you?"

Lugnut was on the brink of accepting her offer when Megatron's words came back to him. No. As a warrior he must ask her himself. He must face this danger as a hero worthy to serve Lord Megatron. Otherwise, he'd be unworthy to serve either of them. "I, uhh, I must ask her myself. It is…sensitive."

"Oh?" Arcee looked at him, curious. "Is it personal?"

"Very much!" He tried to restrain himself but found himself blurting, "I would like to ask her to bond with me!"

"That is sensitive," Arcee agreed, her face flickering through surprise. "Have you thought about this?"

"Oh yes. For many orbital cycles. But I could not act on such a selfish motive during the war when Megatron needed us."

"But now…?"

"Yes! But now, maybe she will assent." He hoped. If only he could find a way.

"So…what do you need from me? Time off?"

"I…do not understand femmes, Madam Arcee. I would like some advice how to proceed with the proposal process."

"Femmes? We're just the same as any other mech. Well, minus the obvious," Arcee laughed. "But if you want some advice?" She sat back. "A femme, or any mech, too, I suppose, would like to feel that the event is special. Not just the bonding itself but the asking. So you should do your best to make it memorable for her."

"Yes. I see!" Lugnut's optics spiraled. Then, "Wait. How do I do that?"

"Well," Arcee got up. She always thought better while moving—one of the occupational hazards of teaching. "You should do things that show you put a lot of effort into planning it. And maybe get her a little something. Flowers or some jewelry. And compliment her. Though," she looked over, winking, "I think you're already pretty good at that."

"I try very hard!" Lugnut said, earnestly. "What other strategies?" He frowned—at least, Arcee thought it was a frown. It was very hard to interpret his expressions. "This must be planned for like an ambush!"

Arcee shot him a worried look. "Ambush? Perhaps not the best analogy."

Lugnut drooped. That was the only thing he was good at planning.

The comm rang. Arcee sighed. "I'm sorry. I have to take this." Lugnut nodded, pushing himself to his feet. "Come back later, and we can talk more, maybe?"

[***}

"You hear a lot," Lugnut said, watching Prowl wipe down glasses with a towel. This was true. Ninjas, he knew, were also known for laying crafty traps. Which is exactly what he needed. "I need some advice about, you know…romance." He was not entirely comfortable asking an Autobot for such sensitive information but…desperate times.

Prowl tilted his head, wrinkling his nasal plating. "I am perhaps not the best expert in the subject," he said, quietly.

"You know more than me!"

A reluctant nod. Yes, well, anyone would count as an expert in romance compared to Lugnut. "I shall do my best to answer your questions," he said, as a compromise. Lugnut had never been anything but a model employee and a considerate coworker. He deserved whatever advice and experience Prowl could give. He just…hoped it worked better for the bomber.

"Okay. Look. Well. I, uhhh, I want to ask Madam General Strika something. Something _romantic_," he clarified. He tried to glower. Prowl merely nodded, mildly. "And…uh…I don't know how to be romantic."

"You should simply be yourself."

"Madam Arcee suggested flowers, but I do not think know the point of that. Flowers die and I do not wish to give Madam General Strika dead things." He hesitated. "Except enemies."

Well, Prowl considered, Lugnut had a point. And he had never understood the need to damage organic plants that way. "You should study what she likes. If she does not care for flowers, what does she like?"

"Combat plans!" Lugnut burst out, eagerly. "And ordnance maps. And a very precise timetable. And—"

"Those all sound like her professional capacity. What about her life beyond that?" A femme or mech was so much more than their mere job description. A general, no matter how successful, still had hopes and dreams and fears and worries.

Lugnut stalled, his face so blank Prowl feared he had offlined, the optics dimming down. "Lugnut?" he asked.

Lugnut's optics brightened slowly. "I, uhhh, do not know anything like that." His head drooped. "I thought she liked being a general."

"It doesn't mean she doesn't like it. Just that that's not all she is. I mean, you're a warrior, right?" Prowl moved to start stacking glasses back in their rack. "You are also the head of security here, and Strika's companion," he noted with one curious upraised supraorbital ridge, Lugnut's twitch at that, "and a pit fighter of some renown." He waited until Lugnut nodded. "You are all of these things, but not one of them is really all of you. You are larger than these parts."

Lugnut considered, rubbing his jaw. "I see. So Madam General Strika is a madam and also a general and also…," he blinked. "No. Still don't know."

"That is why," Prowl said, patiently, bending to arrange the new shipment of bottles, "you must do research."

"Research," the high, sharp voice came over Lugnut's shoulder. Chromia ambled over, draping herself over the counter to grab a cube and then hit the mid-grade dispenser. Prowl frowned at her. She gave a saucy wink in reply, taking a decidedly undainty slurp from the cube. "You are talking about The Strike Force, huh?"

Lugnut glowered. "That is Madam General Strika," he corrected. It was, he thought, a clever nickname, and quite suited to Strika's personality, but he resented that…the probation dancer had come up with it.

"Oh, whatever. Look, Luggage, I'm going to hook you up a little bit, because you've hauled creepsters off my chassis more than enough times." Chromia perched herself on a stool, crossing her legs.

"I was only performing my duties," Lugnut said, half in demurral, half in rebuke. He did his duties. He had doubts about how…zealous Chromia sometimes was in performing hers. NOT that he wanted to know. His job did not entail him seeing behind those closed doors. That was Skywarp's job.

"Yeah, I know, but still. I appreciate it." Her smile grew sly. "I mean, I can show appreciation to a big strong mech, can't I?"

Lugnut stuttered.

Prowl coughed. "Chromia, do you have any actual advice for him?"

She shot the slim ninjabot a look. "Of course," she said, acidly. "Lugnut. You want to win a femme over? You have to buy her presents. Expensive ones."

"Like what?" Lugnut considered. There was a nice arms dealer he knew from the Arena. Maybe he could get her a nice new sidearm? "A bazooka?" What a lovely mod that would be! He could even get it painted fuchsia, to match her decorative enamel.

Chromia rolled her optics. "A bazooka? Sure, if you want her to use it on you!" She took another swig of her cube. "It has to be something completely useless. Like jewelry or an annoying exotic pet. Something that sends a message."

"That message being that she is useless? I do not want to send that message!" Lugnut's optics flared, hostile.

"Messages? What messages?" All three of the Inamorato clones appeared, Sunstorm dragging a terrified Skywarp into the room.

Chromia tilted back along the bar, arching her spine along the bar's back, thrusting her chassis forward. She smirked under the open admiring ogling of two of the clones. "Messages of loooooooove," she snarked. "Lugster here wants to go to the next level with the Strike."

"Commitment!" Skywarp gibbered, tugging against Ramjet's grip. "Terrifying!"

"The next level!" Sunstorm gushed. "Oh, this will be fabulous! Exactly what this place needs—romance, tenderness, affection." He clasped his hands together beneath his chin, optics glowing.

"Affection," Ramjet snorted. "Completely sickening. I want nothing to do with it." He leaned in closer, peering at Lugnut as though he expected the bomber to look different.

"Lugs wants to know how to pop the question," Chromia said, flicking a delicate finger around the edge of her glass.

"Popping!" Skywarp cringed. "Something could break! Someone could get injured!"

"Not the only thing to be popped if all goes well," Sunstorm said with a sidelong wink. Chromia laughed. Prowl frowned. Lugnut blinked all five of his optics.

"Femmes," Sunstorm said, authoritatively, "like expensive presents."

"See?" Chromia said. "Told you so."

"Strika loves material goods," Ramjet nodded, soberly. He twisted around, grabbing Skywarp into a headlock.

"Luggage wants to get her a bazooka," Chromia said.

"Oh, no no no!" Sunstorm said. "A lady of refinement like Strika deserves something that…enhances her beauty."

"Like?" Lugnut was confused. She would look plenty beautiful with an upmodded weapon to him. She was beautiful enough already.

"Like, you know, jewelry, or fancy clothes."

"A special meal!" Sunstorm added.

"But not too special," Skywarp said, his face under Ramjet's arm. "Exotic eating implements are scary. And dangerous. You could put out an optic!"

"Is there a reason you've dragged Skywarp out of his…workspace?" Prowl asked, eyeing the terrified black jet.

"Clone bonding," Sunstorm said, authoritatively. "Togetherness is vital."

"Can't we, uhhhh, practice togetherness safely downstairs?" Skywarp whimpered. "Preferably over comm?"

"No." Sunstorm said. "You are getting drunk with us, and that's final."

"The most useless, the better!" Ramjet said, ignoring the squirming black jet. "Strika loves ostentatious display."

"Uhhhh, okay." Wait, Lugnut thought. Something was wrong here. But they all were giving him the same advice, so…it must be right, right? And they all knew General Strika from outside the war. Different facets and such. He wanted to show he saw her as more than a General, too.

[***]

"This is ridiculous," Barricade complained, as Blackout rolled off the berth. "I mean, I get you like this job and all, but…seriously?"

Blackout frowned, the frown of a mech having an uncomfortable choice. "Yeah but…Lugnut said he needed me to cover for him tonight."

"It's not an arena night," Barricade snapped. "Too bad on him."

Blackout inched toward the maintenance facility. "But, he asked."

Barricade frowned, trapping the sentence 'and I'm asking you not to' somewhere in his vocalizer. Don't mess with the copter. Well, you want to mess with the copter, of course, but the fun way. He knew he had to tread carefully: Blackout loved his job. Barricade lived in fear that one day there'd be a competition between him and the job and he'd lose. In fact, that's what this felt like. Which sucked. "Yeah I know. Could at least act like you'd rather be here than there though?" Okay, shameless, but, he'd take anything.

Blackout turned, rotors clacking together, and came back to the berth to scoop Barricade up. "No!" Blackout said, earnestly. "Want to be with you of course." He squeezed Barricade against him. "Please don't be upset and stuff?"

Frag. Barricade couldn't steel himself against the copter's earnest worry. "Not upset," he said, squirming. Then stopping, as the squirming started giving him ideas. "Have time for a quickie?"

"You said that half a megacycle ago! And we did!"

Oh, right. Not that Barricade, you know, forgot. Just that hot copter was hot copter. And, well, Barricade was Barricade. "Fine. I'll just…save it till later or something. Like when you get off work that you shouldn't be doing because it's someone else's turn." He pouted.

"That's a cool idea," Blackout said, popping a kiss on his mouth. "Give me something to look forward to and stuff."

Well, Barricade couldn't argue with that logic. And the idea that he was the prize of working at this job did send a warm happy glow through him that had—for once—nothing to do with interfacing. "Give you something to miss, too," he said, ducking in for a long, glossa-tangling kiss.

Blackout broke the kiss with reluctane, optics clouded, growling softly. "Don't gotta make this so hard for me, you know." He put Barricade back down.

Barricade grinned, finally. "Yes. Yes I do."

Blackout caught the grin, a matching one growing slowly across his own face. "So good to me, Barricade," he said.

Yeah, the feeling was mutual. More than. "Hey, uhhh, how 'bout I come with you?"

The copter's optics lit up. "Really? You want to?"

Barricade shifted. "Yeah, well, you know. Want to keep an optic on you." Plus, sitting around in the cube bored and missing Blackout kinda sucked. But the moment of sentiment kind of galled him. A quick recovery. "You know, I drink free while you're on duty."

[***]

"Vhut is it, Lugnut?" Strika said. It had been a long day going over invoices. A new vendor had dropped off a crate of new sex toys that needed to be inventoried and then parceled out to the various pleasuremechs. Not including the free samples she intended to keep for herself. For…quality control purposes, of course.

Lugnut gawped at the colorful assemblage of stuff spread over her desk. This was, uhhh, not the romantic atmosphere he was hoping for. Good thing, he thought, he'd planned out the rest of the evening. "I, uhhh, was hoping I could…get dinner with you tonight?"

Strika looked up. "Vhe can get something vrom ze bar, yes. Is good idea."

Lugnut shifted on his feet. "I meant, ummm, a bit more…," he shrugged. "You and me? Alone?"

"Vhe can be alone." She winked, holding up a sex toy—pink and infused with glitter. "Vhe could be…werry alone."

"I…uhhhh…." Lugnut's processor went blank, his core temp boosting up at the thought. No. Focus. This was…much more important. His spike did not agree, but…he wrestled it into submission. "I made, uhhh, reservations." He had called in an old debt with Bonecrusher, who had opened his café front for one special night. He had meekly explained the purpose of the dinner, before Bonecrusher had chased him out with knives, telling him not to show his trapjaw face until he had Strika with him.

Bonecrusher would be mad if he showed up without General Strika. This was no small concern.

"Rezervations?" Strika echoed. "Vhe eat someplaze?"

Yes. It was the best he could do: an old favor called in on Bonecrusher. He'd pretty much nodded dumbly at whatever the mine destroyer suggested for the menu until Bonecrusher had thrashed his tail and thrown him out, telling him to shut up and bring someone with taste next time. Which he presumed was General Strika. "Yes!"

"Vhy?"

"I thought we might just want to, you know…get away for a bit. You never leave here."

Strika gave a stern frowning look around the office. "Yes. Iz good thought." She patted Lugnut's claw. "You are good to think zo of my velfare, Lugnut."

He beamed. This was a good omen. They had given him good advice. The promise crystal burned happily in his storage compartment like a hopeful star.


	47. Proposal 2

As promised, part two! ^_^

[***]

"Lugnut. Vhat are you doing down zhere?" Strika asked. Lugnut had gone down, as an honorable warrior does before a superior opponent, on one knee, his toes digging nervously into the floor, as he tried to scrape up the courage to ask the question.

"General Strika? Ma'am? Uh…," Lugnut hesitated. Sunstorm had told him that flattery ALWAYS worked, and that everyone, especially femmes, liked compliments. And pet names. And Ramjet had agreed with that second part. So. "My delicate orchid flower…uhhh, thing?"

"Lugnut. Are you feeling unvell?" Strika leaned over, placing her napkin on the table, on the space Brawl had just cleared.

"I'm feeling fine, Madam General, uh…beautiful butterfly." Lugnut's optics flared. He was doing this right, right? Then why didn't it feel right? In fact, it felt…scarier than combat, and the closer he came to asking the question, the more…dizzy he became. He blinked his optics, forcing them to focus. Megatron had insisted that he ask. He had to prove himself! "You-your concern is unnecessary."

"Is it the food? I haff my doubts that any food should be cut into ze rosettes." She cast a meaningful glance at Brawl's retreating back. "Or maybe ze handling."

"It's not the food, my, uhhh, radiant queen of…radiance?" Frag. He'd had Sunstorm write out a whole list of compliments, but…they were tucked in his storage! It certainly wasn't the food, though. He'd barely been able to eat a thing.

Strika tilted her head. "You are acting strange, Lugnut. And why are you on ze floor?"

"M-madam General?" Lugnut threw caution to the winds. He was going to ask. Now or never. The moment would not get more right. His hand went to his storage compartment to retrieve the bright crystal. "There's something I want to ask…."

[***]

Bonecrusher glowered over Brawl as he brought in the dishes from the third course. Stacked together. Not one in each hand like he'd taught him. Frag. 'Teaching Brawl'. That was the problem right slaggin' there. What was worse…one of the plates was still…uneaten. This was unacceptable. An insult. Dare he say…an outrage?

Bonecrusher stormed through the swinging door, tearing his apron off as he went, flinging it against the wall. "What's wrong with my cooking?" he bellowed. His optics flew to Lugnut, hunched over on the ground, pawing himself. "AND GET OFF THE FLOOR YOU HEATHEN SAVAGE!" His tail whistled as he whipped it from side to side.

Lugnut whirled, his hand flying from his storage, something skittering across the floor. "Oh no!" Lugnut said, and lunged for it. His head struck into the table with force enough to dent the metal. A shower of sparks flew, the glass of his main optic spiderwebbing. He held up his claw, looking at it, an expression of horror coming over his face. "No…," Lugnut said, before keeling over, his head coming to rest on Strika's foot.

[***]

Barricade grinned into his cube. When the cybercat's away, the turbomice will play, apparently. Or in this case, the probationary escorts will play. And play hard.

Skywarp had somehow ended up tied to the pole in the middle of the small, fenced off dance area, and was currently shrieking about femme cooties while the footperv was practically slobbering on his little thruster feet.

Sunstorm had cornered Arcee and was showering her with compliments, dragging her around the room, praising the color of the curtains, the way the lighting caught sparkles in her optics, how he'd always loved the color pink, how he admired her for her patience and wit…Arcee may have been an Autobot veteran of the wars, but no one could withstand the sheer torrent of praise that poured from Sunstorm's vocalizer. It was, Barricade decided, a superweapon. One he resolved to cultivate, especially as he saw Arcee crumble under its onslaught.

Ramjet had perched himself on the counter of the bar offering his own special brand of opinions to passersby, while a very harried Prowl alternated between trying to push him off the counter and frantically trying to undo the damage of some of Ramjet's more colorful statements.

"Hey!" Ramjet said, to one of the gracile femmes. "You should totally get the low-grade, chunkstyle."

"No!" Prowl said, nearly throwing himself across the counter to catch the femme's attention. "He, uhh, he has a speech problem."

"Called," the femme retorted, "his foot isn't in his mouth." She slapped a credit chit down. Prowl hurried to get her a drink before the damage could get worse. Though he probably couldn't imagine how.

"Hey, where ya goin', ugly?" Ramjet asked, as she tossed her head and stomped back to her friends, clutching her cube.

Barricade snickered. Prowl shot him a dirty look. "This is not funny, Barricade," he said, sounding worse for wear. "We could be losing valuable clientele."

Barricade shrugged. "No you won't. In fact, this night will become a bit of a local legend. You'll actually get people coming here in hope they get a free sample of the crazy."

"How comforting," Prowl said, wryly.

Barricade shrugged. "What? I know how mechs work." Well, this class of mech. Even Chromia, who came in shrieking like a space banshee with its comet-trail on fire was his kind of people. Gauzy streamers fluttered from her wings as she advanced, face livid and tight with fury. Blackout trailed after her, his optics tight with worry.

"Miss Chromia!" Blackout was saying. "Let me work it out, please?"

"Cram it, whirlyderp," Chromia snapped. "Messing up my gig! Sabotage! I won't stand for it!"

Barricade pushed himself hurriedly off the stool and raced to intercept her before she got to Skywarp. He gave a quick, sharp nod to Blackout, who was wringing his hands in the doorway, optics torn between watching the door and Chromia's determined advance. Skywarp, the little wuss, was his friend, well…sorta. In that Skywarp didn't have anyone else to stand up for him and, yeah. You know what? Barricade had no idea why he felt protective of the little fraidy-cat. But nobody deserved the kind of tantrum that he could easily imagine Chromia could unleash. And Blackout had his hands full already. And he definitely didn't deserve a heapin' helping of Chromia cranked up to 11. Time to earn all those free drinks.

"Hey there," he said, smacking an arm out in front of her, talons spread. "What's your rush?"

"Not into that right now," Chromia snapped, her optics nearly flaming with fury.

Ummm, ew? Barricade so did not swing that way. She could keep her girly parts and her girly goo and all that to herself. He just didn't want her to claw Skywarp's face off. Only Autobots deserved a death that vile.

"That thing is messing up my dance pole."

"Skywarp? He's not messing up anything." Uhhh, okay, that Barricade knew of. Skywarp hadn't really been prone to like…leaking or anything. "And someone tied him there. So don't take it out on him."

"I'll take it out on whoever I want!" Chromia said.

"No. You won't." Barricade stepped closer, dropping his voice to that dangerous murmur. "And definitely not Skywarp."

"You don't tell me what to do!" Chromia huffed, her wings flicking in irritation. The gauzy streamers snapped in the air.

"Except I am." Oh, finally, that one Primus-given talent Barricade had—the ability to be instantaneously annoying—had a purpose. Chromia had optics for no one other than him now. Icy blue optics, in tight little laserbeams of hate. Barricade's own optics, the lower set, flicked wide, seeing Blackout stolidly by the main door, busy collecting weapons from a new guest. So he wouldn't see anything. Whew. He flicked his wrist, one energon blade almost seeming to appear in his hand. "Leave the jet alone."

"I dare you," Chromia said. "I dare you to try to cut me, grounder."

"Yeah?" Barricade grinned. That slightly crazy grin that came in handy in occasions like this. "What's my prize if I do?"

She launched at him, claws raking at his shoulders. He let her weight take him over, bending easily to roll onto the floor. His doorwings crunched, so, it wasn't perfect, but, yeah. Nothing ever was.

A scrabble of limbs and he was on top of her, pressing her face into the floor, one wing twisted painfully. Around them, patrons buzzed, unsure if this was actually planned or some impromptu entertainment. Yup. Here at Inamorato, we're full of surprises, Barricade thought. Tonight, fighting kink. Rowrf.

"Stop fighting!" Skywarp gibbered, jerking one of his feet out of the way. "Please! Fighting's scary!"

"Chromia!" Arcee's voice sliced through the eager rumbling of the crowd. "This is no way for an employee to behave!"

Sunstorm trailed after her, gushing. "Your presence—so commanding! Your tone of voice is a magnificent stridency! You're glorious when you're angry!"

"Help!" Skywarp squeaked. "Footpervs! Germs! Violence!" He rattled against his bonds adding to the chaos, a complete cacophony, music blaring, glasses tinkling, mechs shouting encouragement or distress.

That suddenly died, cut off as sharply as with a circuit breaker. Barricade looked over through the curtained arch to see Lugnut staggering in, half supported by General Strika. The Kaon Krusher, needing help to walk. He levered himself off Chromia, who got up, also unresistingly. The spectacle was so shocking: Lugnut, even after his epic battles in the Arena, scarred and dented and sparking from snapped wires, had always walked proudly. The crowd collapsed into a numb silence, not even up to speculating what might have happened.

"I'm sorry!" he gasped, in the sudden, swallowing silence. "General Strika, ma'am. What I've been trying to ask is really important—"

"No," Strika said. "You are injured, Lugnut. You must be seen by a medic."

"I'm fine, General Madam! I have…my whole life hangs on this-!"

"You vill say nothing until you haff been cleared! Zhat is an order!"

Lugnut's head drooped, as Strika led him into the bar area.

"Prowl," Strika said. "Some high grade, please. Zomething with zome pep." Prowl nodded, and moved to bring a fresh cube to the table next to the cushioned bench Strika propped Lugnut on. Barricade ambled over. Whatever'd taken down the Kaon Krusher, Onslaught might want to know. And Barricade's own nosiness definitely wanted to know.

Strika's optics cut around the circle of faces. "You vill tell me vhat chaos happened and who is to blame…later." The crowd shrank back. Which was, of course, Barricade's cue. He stepped forward, flashing a grin at Strika.

"Know a little first aid. I can check him out before a real medic gets here?"

"Real medic is here. Or as close as you're gonna need." Lockdown shouldered his way through the crowd, Blackout trailing in his wake. "Rotors, here, told me you might need a mech of my…talents."

"No one needs your talents," Strika said, sharply. "Lugnut least of all."

"He can help," Prowl said, quietly. "From his ability to extract mods, he has a superlative grasp of basic medical skills." He handed over the cube, which Strika held up to Lugnut's shovel mouth. She gave Lockdown a long, narrow-opticked look.

"Fine. But vhe are right here to vatch that you rezizt temptation."

Lockdown grinned. "Fair enough, Baboosh. I'll convince ya that I'm a changed mech." His optics drifted to Prowl, his voice softening at the end. He knelt down on the seat by the larger mech. "What happened?" He began peering into Lugnut's optics, one at a time.

"I do not know. Vhe vere eating ze dinner, although he did not eat zo much, and then he vhent to the floor, doubled over in pain, maybe?" She shrugged. "And zhen he kept trying to say something but he made no zense and…," she shrugged, helplessly, her optics tight with worry.

Barricade stepped back, feeling a really uncomfortable sort of tension near his spark chamber. Even worse than the ouch of his crunched doorwing. He kept thinking of how he'd have felt if that assassin had actually hit Blackout. He hated feeling like this. It sucked, all this caring and emotion and stuff.

It got even worse when Blackout ambled over. "He, uh, gonna be okay?" the copter whispered to Barricade. He brushed one hand over the bent metal.

"Be fine," Barricade said, reflexively. He flicked the doorwing out of Blackout's grasp, but found himself leaning in till his shoulder bumped the copter's chassis.

"We know what happened and stuff?" Blackout's arm went carefully around the narrow shoulders.

"Trying to figure it out right now." Barricade fought himself not to get irritated. Copter was out of the loop and hated that feeling. Barricade could totally relate. Not fair to get irked at him for it. He reached up with one hand to stroke the massive hand the copter had over his shoulder.

A pause, as Blackout realized, somehow, he'd come close to irritating Barricade. Then, hesitantly, "Think maybe it's got to do with what he's holding?"

What? Sure enough, peeping out of Lugnut's claw was a shard of something glittery. Barricade now officially hated himself for not noticing that first. Great situational assessment, there, Barricade, he thought, harshly.

He stepped forward as Lockdown popped off his hook mod and attached a small screwdriver into the mod socket. Huh. It looked like a…oh.

"I, uh…I think I figured it out, General Strika," Barricade said, quietly. He twisted out of Blackout's arm.

"Vhat? Vhat is the matter with my Luggies?" At the endearment, Lugnut's optics flared briefly.

"He, well, it looks like he was going to ask you to bond with him?" Barricade pointed to the shard of what must have once been a bonding crystal.

"Bond vith me?" Strika bent down, her optics focusing on the hand Barricade indicated. "Bond?" She looked up at Lugnut, who had half of his helm plating removed by Lockdown. "Is zis true, Lugnut?"

"Yes, uhhh, Madam General, err…radiant flower…." The lower jaw quivered. "But the whole thing has been a disaster."

"Whole thing?"

"Dinner and then there was supposed to be dancing and if you said yes some fireworks and…I got you an electrum plated derringer because Chromia said it had to be something useless but I couldn't find jewelry I thought you'd like and…then the crystal broke and…," the voice trailed off, woozily.

"Yeah," Lockdown said. "How 'bout I just shut him down for a bit for a reboot. He'll be fine when he comes back on." Under his breath, the bounty hunter added, "Spare himself a bit of slaggin' dignity."

"No! Vait!" Strika said. She picked up Lugnut's claw, stroking the shattered shard of crystal. "Yes, my Luggies. I vill bond with you."

"Really?" Lugnut's optics flared again. "But the dancing. And the crystal. And—"

Strika shushed him with a gesture. "Yes. And vhe can do zese other things…later. As a zelebration. For everyone."

"But I want…just us."

"Oh," Strika grinned. "Ve vill haff private zelebrationings, too."

[***]

"That was, wow, that was so cute, don't you think?" Blackout said, bouncing on his feet as he clocked out. "I mean I'm sorry it didn't go exactly how Lugnut planned it and stuff but it was still super sweet and even better this way because now everyone got to see it."

Yeah. I'm sure Lugnut's totally thrilled about that part, Barricade thought. "It was, uhh, interesting."

"And so romantic."

And then the moment Barricade had been dreading since he spotted the fragment of crystal.

"Maybe we should think about, you know, bonding and stuff."

Erk. Barricade had thought about bonding. It was filed under 'the very few things that scare Barricade'. Quick. Time for some awesome deflection skills. "Maybe," he said, twining an arm through Blackout's. "But you promised me some after-shift interfacing."

Blackout grinned down at him, covering Barricade's hand with his. "I did, didn't I? Well, maybe we can talk about it afterwards and stuff."

Yeah, sure, Barricade thought. New mission: Interface the copter into a coma and hope he forgets all this bonding nonsense when he finally, megacycles later, wakes up. At last, a mission he could enjoy.


	48. Night before

A/N: Okay so finally an update to the Prowl and Lockdown saga. Nice bit of fluff for our mechs.

Thankyou to my fellow writers, antepathy and toyzintheattik for help and advice with this.

Night before - by Optimus Bob

The berth grated against his plating; there was nothing wrong the material, he just couldn't get comfortable. Try as he might whenever he settled down to recharge, flashes of images, of memories and feelings assaulted his processor. He had woken up with a start; panting and shaken more than once that evening and it was beginning to get tiresome.

Flopping back onto the berth with a discontent sigh, Prowl rubbed a hand over his faceplates. If this lack of recharge continued for much longer he would have no choice but to see Ratchet and tell him the truth. It was starting to affect his work. Mixing energon cocktails wrong, dropping glasses, the most embarrassing moment had been when he'd spilled an entire tray of mixed grade energon over one of the madams. Grimacing at that humiliating moment, Prowl failed to decide which was worse; the fact that he'd covered Arcee in energon in front of a large audience or that she had simply thrown him a sympathetic smile as if he was some sort of glitched mechanoid deserving of pity.

Tossing and turning, Prowl huffed. He knew that getting angry at Arcee's pity; her sympathy would get him no where fast. It was understandable, she was one of the very few who knew what had transpired and it was in her sensitive nature to handle him like a fragile, precious element on the verge of exploding.

Visor dim, the ninja succumbed to fatigue once more. His frame twitched when another memory purge hit. This one was the worst yet. He shifted in his recharge, mumbling softly, the occasional whimper escaping his vocaliser. His intakes hitched sharply and he writhed on his berth his fingers curling into the padding. A sob sounded from his parted mouth, his faceplates creasing in discomfort as the memories took hold. "No no... No..." He begged and gasped before sitting up with a startled cry, panting as he slammed back into consciousness.

Mouth pressing into a thin line, a tight fist punched the berth in frustration. He was a ninja; he was trained to rise above such emotional episodes. Memories of the past weren't supposed to affect him this way, where was his control, his discipline now?

Groaning, he curled his legs up to his chest wrapping his arms around them, holding them close. Safe in his own room, surrounded by the comforting organic fauna, he did at least retain some semblance of ease. It was the only place he could let down his barriers, allow himself to wilt from the assault of painful memories. Nobody saw this side of him, the cracks beneath the surface as he struggled to come to terms with what happened and if Prowl had his way that was exactly how it was going to remain.

He'd paced the bridge of the Death's Head long enough. Settling down for the night wasn't an option. It wasn't that he'd had a bad night, not in the least. He'd spent it - as he spent most nights - at Inamorato. He helped out in-between bounties. Returning to his old profession was exactly what he'd needed to clear his processor. He worked for the highest bidder, none of this shady business that Megatron always used to hire him for. Bounty hunting wasn't an illegal profession and in the majority of cases, it wasn't an unethical one either.

Mod stealing however, well that was a whole different ball game.

Lockdown grinned eyeing his newly populated mod shelf. He didn't so much as steal anymore as took a little commission when the pay packet wasn't a hefty one. That tended to happen whenever he hunted down Decepticons on the request of the Elite Guard. The guard had to be his tightest customer and paid the very minimum that they could get away with. With that in mind, Lockdown had decided there was nothing wrong with taking a cut for himself. The captured prey wasn't going to need them anymore, they'd be wasted in the stockades and so he indulged a little. Called it a hobby.

Unlike during the war - this time was different - he didn't let the job become his life, he had other priorities now. Returning to Inamorato at the end of every mission, he'd pay Arcee some of what he owed - always careful to keep a tab open - and spent his cycles swapping snark with a certain guardsmech or belligerent femme, whoever would give him the time of day really and conversing casually with Blackout and Lugnut while they worked. Occasionally he lent a helping hand if there looked to be any trouble but mostly it was his go to place to kick back and relax.

Of course there was also the matter of a certain black and gold mech that prompted his visitations but in a return to true form, Lockdown would admit it to no one save Prowl himself - if the ninjabot ever happened to ask. He made a point of not spending too much time with the ninja. The last thing he wanted to do was push the mech. His optics never strayed too far from that sleek frame though and Prowl always bit so easily to any sly teasing digs he happened to toss his way, returning them in kind.

Those evenings were Lockdown's favourite. Nothing beat throwing jibes back and forth with the bartender. Prowl never shied from retorting and seemed to have recovered nicely from his ordeal. This pleased Lockdown, he couldn't count the times he'd lain awake wondering if Oilslick had broken Prowl for good, if the mech would ever let anyone else get close to him again. He was only to glad to see Prowl back to his usual stoic self, gave his spark a little hope, especially when the ninja threw him that sly smirk and quirked optic ridge in response to one of his off hand flirtatious remarks.

Tonight however, had been different. It had only been a few cycles since Lugnut had proposed to madam Strika and Prowl had seemed fine then. The cycles that followed had revealed a little more about the ninja's state of mind. Lockdown had noticed him making more mistakes, snapping more easily at difficult customers and more often than not, the staff too. It was only when Prowl had careened into Arcee, having failed to notice her approach him and poured the entire contents of his tray of drinks over her, that Lockdown realised not all was as it seemed.

Bartending was a hit and miss job; you had bad days and good days. Prowl didn't. He put as much dedication into his job as he did everything else. It had Lockdown worried, in fact it had him pacing. His processor was racing. How could he approach Prowl without the ninja thinking he was worried or throwing him a pity party? The hunter had seen the mortification on Prowl's face when Arcee simply dismissed it and patted his arm like he was a mechling and she was the patient teacher. He'd disappeared shortly after and hadn't been seen for the rest of the night.

Scratching the back of his helm with the point of his hook, Lockdown's optics brightened. Snapping his fingers he rummaged through his latest stash and pulled out an elegant looking bottle of high grade. Casual, he'd invite Prowl for a drink. No strings, just two mechs exploring their _very _new friendship. With any luck - he'd seen the ninja on a high and anything was possible - the high grade would loosen Prowl's glossa somewhat and maybe then Lockdown would get the answers he was looking for.

Time always seemed to slow down on nights like this one. When the memory purges were particularly bad. Cycles dragged on and Prowl sat - unable to recharge, unable to meditate - still and silent until it came time for him to go back to work. His helm rested against the cool wall, visor dim with exhaustion. Ratchet was going to blow a circuit when he finally relented and confessed how long the episodes had been going on.

A soft knocking drew his attention. Visor flickering in surprise, Prowl composed himself. It was late, who could possibly want him at this time? Heading to the door with caution, he stopped in his tracks when an all too familiar voice requested an audience.

Catching himself just as his intakes began to increase, Prowl ex-vented slowly, steadying his sudden nervousness. Opening the door he quirked an optic ridge at Lockdown. "I trust this visit is because you're lost and wish to be pointed in the direction of your ship?"

Lockdown huffed at his dry tone. "Cute." Not waiting for an invite, the hunter strolled into the room and grimaced as he looked for a place to sit. "Fraggit kid, ya not heard of pest control, ya got green slag all over your furniture." He threw the ninja a grin before plonking himself down on the berth.

Placing down the two cubes he'd conveniently brought with him, he unscrewed the bottle and poured a measure into each. Prowl remained at the door, shooting him an incredulous look. "Ya just gonna stand there? Lettin' all the heat out."

Blinking, Prowl closed the door and slowly made his way over. "May I ask what this is in aid of?"

"What, I gotta have a reason t'put a few back with ya?" Lockdown reached over and grabbed Prowl's wrist, tugging him to sit on the berth, thrusting the second cube in his hand before he had chance to protest. "Not my fraggin' fault you're always workin' when I come around so I thought it was about time we had a spark t' spark." His wide maw spread into a grin, ruby optics studying the slightly stunned 'bot closely for anything untoward.

Scowling a little at the familiar words, Prowl didn't have the strength or the energy to argue. Lockdown clearly had his mind made up. Raising the cube to his lips he swirled its contents gently.

"It ain't gonna bite kid. Not here t' get ya drunk, just wanna spend some time with ya."

Prowl peered at him with a bright visor, surprised at the forward admission. He took a mouthful of the high grade and the liquid slipped easily down his throat, warming his tank, giving his circuits a gentle buzz. It wasn't meditation or recharge but with his options severely lacking, Prowl took another mouthful and then another until the half-filled cube was empty.

Optics widening at the sudden thirst, Lockdown watched the high grade in Prowl's cube vanish. "Might wanna slow down there, bucko. This here grog ain't no single-credit sludge." He groused half-heartedly even as he poured him another cube, this time filling it up.

"Can't have you bringing expensive high grade and let it go to waste now can I? What kind of host would that make me?"

Lockdown smirked at the vague humour, taking a mouthful of high grade himself. "So gonna tell me what's goin' on with ya?" Straight to the point, no point in sugar coating things. Besides he wanted Prowl to talk to him before the ninja got himself completely wasted. Which - from the way he cradled the cube in his hands like a precious gem, sipping at it frequently - looked like his intention.

Giving an absent shrug, Prowl regarded him coolly. "I'm not sure I know what you're referring to, exactly."

Lockdown smiled at the non-committal reply. At least some things never changed. Taking another mouthful he nodded. "Course ya don't. Downin' the drink like it's you're only source a'sustenance is perfectly normal behavior for ya...sure. Let's drink t' how stable up ya are right now then."

His sly smirk spread even wider as he raised his cube, catching Prowl's stunned expression over its lip. If there was one thing that he could always count on to get Prowl's complete attention, it was pointing out that you'd seen through his charade and put him on the spot. A niggling stray thought at the back of Lockdown's processor warned him not to push the ninja too hard too soon. "To great minds huh?" He winked with a low chuckle, knocking back the remainder of his first cube. Right now, the human anecdote at the forefront of Lockdown's thinking wasn't all that far from the truth. For all that they'd been put through in recent cycles, his processor was battered. He hoped this impromptu sharing session he'd sprung on the ninjabot, was a step in the right direction to closing the distance between them, begin the healing process that they were both sorely in need of.

Four cubes and a few snarky digs later, Lockdown was on his aft on the floor. His upper body sprawled over Prowl's berth as he used it to prop himself up, while the inebriated ninjabot snickered at him from his comfier spot on the berth, leaning against the wall.

"I don't see what's so fraggin' funny." He groused, throwing the ninja a dirty look.

Prowl covered his mouth and pressed his lips together to stifle his chuckling. Shaking his helm, he mumbled into his palm about it not being funny at all, before bursting out laughing again, much to the hunter's embarrassment.

"Could 'a happened to anyone!" He grumbled, dragging himself back up onto the berth with his hook. His other hand tightly gripped the almost empty bottle of high grade as he flopped beside the greatly amused ninja.

"Mm, but it happened to you." Prowl chuckled, finishing off his fourth cube with a hic of his tank. "You who can apparently handle his high grade." He jabbed Lockdown in the chest. "N' you call me a light weight, don't see me falling off my berth."

Lockdown took a mouth full of high grade and huffed at the giggling ninjabot. With a sharp movement, Prowl yelped as he was pushed backwards off his berth. In his less than sober state, he toppled backwards and landed with an 'oof' on his back. Peering over the edge, looking rather smug with himself; Lockdown quirked an optic ridge at the floored 'bot. "Well would ya look at that." He grinned down at Prowl who blinked up at him incredulously.

"You pushed me!" He squeaked his cube still in hand as he waved it aimlessly at the looming hunter.

"Perceptive ain't ya?" Chuckling, Lockdown grabbed Prowl's windshield with his good hand and hauled him off the floor and face first onto his berth. Sitting back against the wall, retrieving his cube; he sipped sedately as if making a point, casting the sprawled out 'bot a sly grin. "Well looks like we're all out, better start talkin' kid, I get handsy when I'm bored."

Prowl scoffed at the light laughter that followed Lockdown's suggestive wink and he sat up, holding his helm with a groan. Crossing his legs, he pinched the bridge of his nose and swayed a little. "Knew there had to be a catch." He muttered quietly. "Sure you don't want to molest me instead?"

Blinking in surprise at the flippant reply, Lockdown almost choked on his energon. "Tempting slick, tempting. How's about you tell me what the slag is goin' on up here first hm?" He gently tapped the side of Prowl's helm with his hook. As much as throwing the kid down and facin' him into oblivion would be fun, Prowl the mech - whole and sane - meant far more to him than a night of drunken intimacy. That was an awkward place he didn't want to go to with this particular mech and since his spark had gotten latched onto this particular glitch of a 'bot, he'd gradually come to realise he wasn't really interested in it from anyone else either.

"Nngh... how do I let you talk me into these things?" Prowl groaned, visor flickering dimly, betraying his fatigue. His systems tingled with excess charge from the high grade. "Bad influence on me..."

Taking it as a compliment, Lockdown smiled. "Only sorta influence I like."

Peering at the hunter with a look of disdain at his cheery demeanour, Prowl sighed. "This is cruel and unusual punishment you realise? Getting me drunk, just so I'll share my problems with you."

"Hey, don't ya go blamin' yer slag on me. Ya got yerself drunk." Lockdown's smirk faded somewhat as he regarded the obviously exhausted and inebriated mech sat beside him. "And if I may say so, kid... that ain't like you... so start talkin'."

Dropping his hand to his lap, Prowl glared at the berth. "There's nothing to talk about."

"Like slag there isn't."

"Why can't you ever give it a rest, Lockdown?" The ninjabot snapped and clambered unsteadily from the berth, pacing to the small window looking out onto the street below. Feeling more than a little nauseous from the sudden movement, he gripped the window frame tightly as the room spun around him.

Screwing his face up at the snippy retort, Lockdown swigged back the last of his high grade. "Why ya always make things difficult?"

Scowling round a fin, Prowl cast him a dark look. "…_I _make things difficult? You'd rather I take up your example and start fighting with every mech I have a problem with?"

"Might do ya some good. Unless ya prefer everyone thinkin' yer a sparkless fragger."

Whirling around – against his better judgment – Prowl stared at the hunter. "Is that what you think of me?"

"What d' ya expect? Can't read fraggin' minds kid. Blow so much hot n' cold ya make my slaggin' head spin." Planting his cube firmly on the table, Lockdown stood, feeling like he'd finally worn out his welcome. "If you were anyone else, I'd say you were fuckin' with my processor."

Scarlet optics met the azure visor and held the glare they found there. Huffing loudly, the hunter shook his helm. "I'm done playin' games with you, Prowl. You want t' wallow in yer own misery? Fine, I can tell when I'm not wanted." Not waiting for Prowl to respond or more likely argue at him; his spark fraying in his chest, Lockdown headed for the door. "Be seein' ya, slick."

Prowl stared at the mech. He hadn't expected the outburst, hadn't realised that closing himself off so much would – for starters – be noticed, least of all hurt anyone. Lockdown wasn't Oilslick, he wasn't out to use him for his own purposes, had never wanted him to be anything other than himself. Lockdown had taken it upon himself to defend his honour against the very mech that had threatened to steal his very spark. Oilslick had taken so much from him, violated him to his very core that Prowl had felt like there was nothing left of him to give. He had felt hollow, empty, numb, but as the hunter was about to leave his room, a sharp pang of regret stabbed his spark.

After everything Lockdown had risked for him – he'd still yet to remember everything and find out what happened to Oilslick – letting him leave when he'd put himself out there, reached out to him, wasn't right.

"Wait."

Good hand curled around the door handle, Lockdown halted at the feeble request.

"Please… stay."

Lockdown could practically hear the proverbial wall come crashing down. Prowl would never, in preservation of his pride, had asked such a thing of the hunter before. Turning back to the black and gold mech, his sparked twisted to see a once formidable foe standing with his shoulders slumped, visor dim; what had Oilslick done to him. It wasn't natural for that mech to look so defeated.

Lockdown crossed the room in the sparkbeat, a cauldron of conflicting emotion driving him. He wanted to destroy everything that Oilslick was, torture him, humiliate him, spit on his sparkless frame and leave him in a pool of his own energon to die a slow, painful death. But first things first. Lockdown had to embrace the gift being offered to him in this haze of drunken bonding, his love burning as intensely as his lust for vengeance. He wrapped his arms around the broken bike, pressing him flush to his chest. When slender fingers curled desperately into his back struts, clinging to his plating, his spark lurched. He had hoped for this moment but didn't realize just how hard it would hit him when it happened.

"Ain't goin' no where, kid." He murmured somberly. It was the most sincere thing he'd ever said in his long life, and it didn't matter whether Prowl realised it or not.

They stood that way for what felt like an age, yet the hunter knew he'd have to let go. Let the ninja rest. Reluctantly pushing the smaller mech away he looked down at him with his signature sly grin. "I reckon all this organic sludge is adversely affecting yer spark, kid." His grin widened as Prowl blinked up at him with tired confusion. "Ya gettin' soft on me."

Scoffing with a half-hearted scowl; Prowl pulled away a little further. "Hardly." Composing himself from his moment of weakness; Prowl straightened and quirked an optic ridge at the hunter. "I do feel that statement is more relevant to yourself"

"We can stand here and argue semantics all cycle, kid; 'cept you need some 'charge."

The faintest of smirks flickered across Prowl's face. "Mm your concern only emphasises my point." He headed for his berth and wearily lay on his side.

Growing a little uncomfortable at the gesture of trust, Lockdown perched on the edge. "I should let ya rest." He muttered, rubbing the back of his helm.

Visor flickering, Prowl murmured in reply. "Probably… but I'd feel better if you stayed…"

The unspoken request hung in the air and Lockdown internally debated with himself for the longest time, before laughing it off. "Last time I give ya high grade, slick… yer already makin' moves."

Prowl smiled faintly and shifted on his berth, leaving enough space for Lockdown to lay beside him. "Your choice." He whispered softly, visor dimming.

Not one to waste any opportunity, the hunter lay beside the ninja. His optics watched the smoky face for any sign of discomfort. Lying so close to the mech, barely touching made Lockdown's very circuits tingle. Prowl's fingertips brushed against his own as he slipped into recharge, intakes stalling it was all he could do not to kiss that ever so slightly parted mouth. A rueful smile crossed his face and he instead rested his hand over the ninjabot's, satisfied that he at least got this moment.

When his recharge cycle ended, Prowl stirred. He felt more rested than he had in a long time. His visor flickered online and a lone hand slid across the berth to the empty place where he was sure Lockdown had been. Fingers curling into the padding, he sighed and a faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

He knew they wouldn't discuss the previous night, it wasn't there way. It was enough to be able to get up and head downstairs in preparation for another day's work. Lockdown was idly chatting to Strika about her up and coming bonding ceremony. Prowl tried not to make eye contact and set about cleaning the bar down. He had high grade to purchase and new cocktails to experiment with. Stealing a glance his visor met those distinctive angular optics and their red glow seemed to melt into his spark. Lockdown was on his way out, another bounty to catch, more credits to rake in. He gave the hunter a nod and the faintest of smiles, receiving one in kind before the mech strolled out of his life once more.

Carrying on with his work, polishing the counter of the bar, Prowl's subtle smile spread into something warmer.


	49. Indoctrination

Indoctrination by antepathy

Blackout figured Barricade was on some kind of mission, but he didn't care. He was happy to play cover (or, you know, whatever it was called and stuff) just to spend time with him. And to be honest, this Park of the Primes place in Iacon was kind of pretty. All sorts of sculpture stuff and exotic things from other planets like plants and crystals and it was actually pretty cool. Kind of like a museum, but outdoors and pretty. And there was a thing called a 'tea house' that they were totally going to later that looked really cool!

His hand squeezed at Barricade's. This was cool. Barricade was cool and he was so happy. "This is awesome," he murmured, afraid to make too much noise and distract Barricade from whatever he was really here to do.

Barricade's hand squeezed back. He tilted his head up. "Almost done. Then we can get that tea stuff."

"Cool!" Blackout's rotors riffled. He just liked spending time with Barricade; it didn't have to be about him. Or 'tea'. Whatever that was.  
They rounded a corner made of some blue-silicate leaved plant, that tinkled and clinked in the light breeze, casting little sequins of blue light over everything, and came across a little Autobot school group—a teacher-mech confronting a half-circle of sparklings. Barricade edged away, but Blackout stopped. It looked like they were going to tell a story, and Blackout liked stories!

Two of the sparkling wielded little toy figures of mechs, acting out what she was saying.

"And then the Omega Sentinels!" she said, her voice so cheerful that Barricade twitched.

One of the sparklings took a pair of toys and zoomed them over the cleared area on the ground. "Omegas are unstoppable!" she chirped.

"Oh no they're not!" the other sparkling said. "Here comes the Decepticon Heavy Brigade!"

The watching sparklings booed and made rude noises.

"That's right," said the teacher. "And the Decepticon Heavy Brigade was very, very scary!"

The sparkling turned his toys toward the crowd, making growling sounds.

"Wasn't the Heavy Brigade," Blackout murmured. "Just me. Everyone else was dead." Blackout stepped back. Maybe he didn't like stories so much. Barricade's hand tightened in his—Blackout could feel tension thrum through the smaller mech.

"But!" one of the audience called out. "The Decepticons are stupid!"

"That's right!" said the little mech holding the Blackout doll. He dropped his voice. "I'm stoopit! I'm so dumb I forget how to fly!" He crashed his toy into the girl's Omegas.

"….I've never forgot how to fly," Blackout said. "That's not…it's not right." He hated parks. He hated sparklings. And teachers. And everything. He hated the blue light dancing from the plant. And he was pretty sure he'd hate tea.

"Autobot propaganda," Barricade muttered. He looked up. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Can…can we just go home now?" Blackout's rotors drooped, dragging on the ground. At least at Inamorato they thought he was a hero and stuff. And, and maybe he wasn't real smart but he tried!

"One klik," Barricade said, after a moment of studying Blackout's face. His hand released Blackout's. He stormed to the group of children, tapping his Decepticon symbol.

"Listen up, teacher lady. This is wrong. Like. On so many levels." Barricade whirled to the crowd of sparkling. "First off, there was only ONE of us taking on all of your slaggin' Sentinels. And you know what? He won. Because he's that damn good. Not because he 'forgot how to fly'." He glared around the circle. "None of you are even air frames so how fraggin' dare you even make fun of flying?"

The sparklings quailed.

"And if you knew your math, you'd know how much force it takes to get a mech of that size airborne, much less maneuverable. You Autobot grounders think it's so easy? So show some respect!"

Blackout inched back until he clattered into another plant thingie, this one with little metal plaques tied to it—some kind of wishing tree. All he was wishing for was to be back in his recharge cube, dying of embarrassment. That's—that's how people saw him? Big and dumb?

"And he, the ONE, took out ALL of your Sentinels. And you know what? He did it for the rest of us. Look up 'sacrifice' in your slaggin' lexicons." Barricade's four optics blazed so red they cast baleful light on the blue-opticked crowd, before whirling to confront the teacher. "And you! What kind of slaggin' irresponsible….SLAG is this? Teaching this kind of propaganda? War's over, lady. Time for the truth to come out. On both sides. Not turning real honor and heroism and real sacrifice into a…into a slaggin' JOKE!"

He flicked his wrists and Blackout saw the purple pink of energon blades pop from his wrist tires. "And, little sparklings." His voice got dangerous and quiet. "Let me tell you something. Blackout's the nicest, sweetest mech I've ever met. I'm not. I'm your worst fraggin' nightmare. And if I ever hear any of you say one bad thing about him?" He carved an intricate pattern of light with his blades. "Ever." He glared around the circle until every head had shrunk down onto its neck, nodding. They believed him.

So did Blackout.

With one last glare at the teacher, Barricade stomped out of the circle. He stopped, hesitating, blades snicking back into their housing. He turned back, and snatched the Blackout figure from the numb fingers of the child. "You don't deserve this," he snapped. "Blackout IS the Decepticon Heavy Brigade. And he's worth all of you combined."

Barricade stomped over to where Blackout was trying his best to hide under the tree. His optics were still tight with fury. "Let's get that tea."

"I kind of want to go home," Blackout said, his voice unsteady.

Barricade's optics softened, but he shook his head, firmly. "We came here to learn stuff and have fun. You let these idiots ruin that for you and the Autobots have won." He held up the crude little Blackout figure. "Even they never said you were a coward."

Blackout's breath caught, staring at the cloth dolly. "Not a coward," he mumbled, unsteadily.

"Then let's show 'em," Barricade said, defiant, reaching out his free hand to take Blackout's again. "Show them how real heroes behave."

Blackout blinked away something like tears, though at Barricade's words or the hurt from their 'history,' he couldn't say. But he curled his hand over Barricade's small talons, and let himself be drawn out from under the shadow of the tree. He could feel the sunlight hit his shoulders, his sonic wave generators with their ancient insignia. "Yeah," he said. "Heavy Brigade don't back down from nothin'."

The edges of Barricade's mouth curled into a sharp smile. "Not even…tea?"

Blackout nodded, feeling a sense of gratitude and relief. Barricade was smart in ways they never taught in books. And he was so glad Barricade was on his side. And suddenly, he thought of what Barricade had spat at that crowd of sparklings. That…that was what Barricade really thought of him. Impressive. Hero. Sacrifice. He didn't care what sparklings thought...if that's what Barricade thought of him. He straightened, rotors flaring. "Not. Even. Tea."


	50. Waltz

Summary: General Strika and Lugnut did not expect their engagement party to bring so many together in so many weird and wonderful ways.

Warnings: Mech x mech kissing, an impromptu waltz ^_~

Waltz - By Optimus Bob

Prowl allowed his mind to wander as he dutifully cleaned and polished the tables. Arcee was quietly and cheerfully humming to herself as she saw to the décor and the ordering of stock. Prowl had to hand it to her, she had good control over the clones and Chromia when it came to getting events like this one organised. Then again, it was for General Strika and Lugnut and they were quite popular among the patrons and staff, so it wasn't altogether surprising that everyone chipped in to help.

His thoughts weren't dwelling on the up and coming engagement party however, he would do what he always did; serve drinks, keep the customers happy and then disappear once the night started to dwindle. Only problem with that was his room seemed unnaturally empty whenever he thought about it. It wasn't that he was used to sharing with anyone, but for that one night he'd had arms wrapped around him, holding him close. It was a feeling he hadn't been able to shake, even though he had woken up the next cycle by himself as he always did. Casting his mind back, he remembered the berth still being warm where his now absent companion had lain. Despite the awkwardness the ninjabot knew to expect whenever he was near or spoke about or to Lockdown, there was a part of him that wished he'd stayed. He couldn't help but wonder what it would have felt like to wake up with someone, with Lockdown.

Sighing softly Prowl suddenly realised he'd stopped polishing the table and had simply been staring at its surface, glancing around hoping nobody had noticed, he moved quickly onto the next table, forcing himself to focus with a low, subtle hum.

"There's no need to feel embarrassed, sweetie." Arcee smiled at him as she trundled past with arms full of frill and lace like material.

Blinking in surprise at the passing comment, Prowl decided to play the innocent card on this one, silently cursing the astute nature of the femme. "Embarrassed about what?"

Arcee chuckled fondly, throwing him a knowing look over her shoulder. "For thinking about him, silly." She turned back to look where she was pinning the lace. "He spent the night, it's perfectly natural to be thinking about it. So you needn't feel embarrassed."

"I… uhm… he didn't… I mean, he left, we didn't. Nothing happened." Prowl stammered, feeling his faceplates flush with heat. "How do you know?" His voice dropped to a whisper, hoping nobody else was eavesdropping.

"Oh, Prowl," Arcee laughed and patted his arm as she headed back to her pile of decorations. "There isn't much that goes on here that I don't know about."

Straightening, in a futile effort to regain some composure, Prowl pursed his lip components. "Still, nothing happened, we talked that's all."

Shrugging slightly, her smile still warm, Arcee continued about her work. "Alright, Prowl." She chuckled fondly and fiddled with a string of lace. "As long as you know you can talk to me, if you need to."

"I…" His protest died in his throat and a small grateful smile tugged at his lips. "Thank you, I appreciate that."

"You're part of the family, Prowl, think nothing of it." The femme gave him a sidelong look, noticing him toying with the cleaning cloth in his fingers. "Was there something you wanted to talk about?" She prompted gently.

Frowning, Prowl stared at his cloth like it was anchoring him to the ground. "I'm not sure how I'm supposed to feel."

Arcee remained quiet as the ninjabot gathered what was on his processor. She prodded him gently when he seemed to come unstuck with his words. "About?"

"About everything." He met her gaze, his stoic façade riddled with confusion. "We're not at war anymore, things were simpler then. You knew what side you were on, where you stood with certain…"

"Bounty hunters?" Arcee offered with a sympathetic smile.

"Yes." Prowl replied with a defeated sigh, his frame wilting. "I admit, I am at a loss."

"Well, you've been through a lot sweets, just try to relax, let what happens, happen."

A door slammed above the balcony and Chromia's familiar drawl filled the room. "Romeo, oh Romeo, where for art thou, Romeo?"

The two 'bots looked at each other and Prowl gritted his denta. "Even that?"

Smirking at the ninja's flat and barely patient tone, Arcee patted his arm. "Even that."

Chromia sauntered down the winding staircase, her sharp optics fixed on the tense ninjabot. "So, how is our Juliette this morning?"

"I'm afraid the nuances of Earth literature escape me, though I'm sure you meant that as an insult."

Perching at the bar, easily propping herself up, Chromia pulled a face at the acerbic tone. "Oooh, did you wake up on the wrong side of the berth, Prowl? Or did your star crossed lover, leave you to your frustrations?"

Growling lowly at her smug grin, Prowl clenched the cloth tighter until he felt Arcee's hand gently resting on his own. Forcing himself to relax, Prowl shot the femme a dark smirk. "Mm, well I can understand why you would be one to sympathise with frustration." He absently began cleaning the table in front of the femme, peering up to offer her an innocent smile. "And will your lothario be attending the party?"

Stifling a snicker, Arcee feigned sudden interest in her already hanging décor, making sure not to meet the femme's optics. Prowl simply resumed his humming and shooed the gob smacked femme from his bar.

"My Lotha… what!" Chromia snapped at Prowl, suspecting it to be an insult of some kind. Huffing petulantly, the femme instantly regained her poise and shot a haughty look at the ninja. "Yeah whatever, Prowl, at least my mech stays in the berth iall/i night."

With that, she turned her back on the black and gold mech with a short laugh and concentrated on making sure she was the picture of perfection, ignoring the subtle undignified muttering from the ninja. "Mm, who knows, your sweet spark may surprise you and sweep you off your feet." She burst into a fit of giggles. "Can you imagine!" She snorted ungainly, finding the imagery incredibly amusing, only stopping when they heard Prowl's door slam shut over her laughter. "What, was it something I said?" She grinned deviously, still chuckling to herself.

"Chromia…" Arcee admonished gently. "You should be nicer, we're lucky to have him back."

"Yeah, yeah I know." The femme protested, slumping into a nearby chair with her arms folded, pursing her lip components. "He's just too much fun!"

Jazz strolled into the bar with an easy casual smile on his face. He hadn't been technically invited but Arcee has asked nicely for his attendance, just in case a party full of Decepticons got out of hand. Smile growing as he spotted the familiar black and gold mech at the bar, Jazz headed over. "Prowl, glad t' see you out n' about. How've you been?"

"I have been 'out and about' for a while, Jazz." Prowl threw him a faint smile. "Though I'm well, thank you for asking."

"Y' do realise you don't have t' be so formal with me, Prowl. We're friends remember?"

Sighing and dropping his gaze before casting him a sheepish look, Prowl shook his helm. "I'm sorry it's been a trying cycle."

"Same slag different cycle huh?"

Chuckling at Jazz's friendly grin, Prowl nodded. "Something like that."

"Well party doesn't seem t' have gotten groovy yet, so pour a mech some high grade and let's hear it."

Unable to find any reason not to Prowl obliged and mixed Jazz's favourite cocktail. It was an equal blend of sweet and tangy flavoured energon in a tall glass, which glowed bright green. Placing it down in front of the ninja, Prowl waited as he always did for Jazz to take the first sip.

Jazz hummed and nodded. "Perfect."

"Glad you approve." Prowl smiled handing him the credit pad for payment, adding nonchalantly; "Lockdown spent the night, last night."

Jazz spluttered into his drink loudly and Prowl found his bar suddenly covered in splatters of bright green. Letting out a patient sigh, he simply wiped it up and averted his optics from his friend's gaze.

"What, that's it? That's all you're giving me?" Jazz peered at Prowl trying to re-focus his attentions. "C'mon mech, it's not like I haven't noticed how you act around each other." He added in soft reassurance.

Visor dimming, Prowl peered up beneath his golden chevron. "That obvious huh?"

Jazz laughed and tentatively took another sip of his drink. "Only t' those who pay attention." He grinned and thwapped Prowl's arm lightly as he went about cleaning his bar out of distraction. "Hey, this is me you're talking to, Prowl."

"I know it's just." Prowl glanced around the still quiet bar and leant closer. "I'm not certain what - if anything - this means."

Jazz's visor flickered at Prowl's obvious embarrassment and he delicately prompted further. "Well, did um... anything happen?"

"No!" Prowl straightened and fiddled with his ridiculous apron, before adding quietly, "of course not. We shared high grade and he tried to get me to talk about... what happened. I asked him to stay, I don't know why but it just... I just," letting out a frustrated sigh, Prowl's frame sagged, "it felt right."

"I can dig that." Jazz murmured thoughtfully, idly swirling his drink. "Have you spoken since?"

"He left, before I woke."

"Well that's nothing t' worry about, Prowl. Question is… what do you want it to mean?"

"I don't understand."

Jazz smiled. "Mech, I think LD is giving you some space, doesn't want t' rush you into anything. So all you've got t' decide is whether you want last night t' mean something."

Inhaling deeply, Prowl off lined his optics for a moment. "I'm going to have to speak with him aren't I?"

"Looks that way, mech." Jazz grinned. "You'll do just fine."

Finally returning the smile with a faint one of his own, Prowl thanked his friend and topped up his almost finished drink. "You have a lot of faith in me."

"Nah, just know that you're not a mech t' let an opportunity pass him by."

The party had picked up around them as they talked and Prowl took a moment to glance at the door. He smiled as a familiar red and blue Prime stepped in, looking a little lost. "Mm, I hope you're one to take your own advice."

Blinking up at the darker ninja, Jazz followed his gaze and instantly turned back around, his frame slouching as he swigged a mouthful of high grade. Frowning at the sudden change in demeanour, Prowl peered at the white mech. "Jazz?"

"S'nothing..."

"Jazz," leaning on the bar, Prowl filled Jazz's vision, forcing him to meet his gaze as he murmured with a knowing smile, "I'm not the only one who's obvious to those who pay attention."

His grim expression breaking into something more amused, Jazz took another mouthful of high grade. "So what is it you think you know, Prowl?" The white mech smirked.

Folding his arms and standing his ground, Prowl quirked an optic ridge at his friend. "I know that you should talk to him."

Shaking his helm, Jazz sighed and stared blankly at the bar counter top, his voice but a murmur. "All the talkin' in the world ain't going t' change his affections."

"It's not like you to give up." Stepping closer, Prowl rested a hand on his arm, his visor glowing softly in understanding. "And no, talking probably won't change his affections, but it might give him options he hadn't thought were open to him before."

Prowl moved away to serve customers, before Jazz could reply, leaving the white mech to his thoughts, not that he had much time as the red and blue mech in question was already by his side.

"Jazz, I'm glad to see you here." Optimus smiled warmly at his friend. "Have you been here long?"

Grinning back, Jazz chuckled as another drink materialised - courtesy of one sneaky bartender - beside his own. Picking it up and offering it to the taller mech, Jazz's visor brightened. "Nah, mech, m' glad for the company. Care t' join me for some high grade?"

"I don't mind if I do." Optimus's smile widened, taking the offered drink.

"Let's grab us a booth before this party really starts kickin' into gear." Jazz suggested, flashing a subtle wink of his visor at his fellow ninja as he passed, receiving a slight bow of a helm and an encouraging smirk in return.

The two mechs watched the party grow in comfortable silence as they sipped their high grade. Jazz's optics were constantly moving as he observed the goings on. Bonecrusher was flitting to and fro making sure nobody touched the prepared goodies and delicacies until Lugnut and Madam Strika arrived, that was proving no easy task as there was more than one table set out with food and the guests were hungry.

Barricade was highly amused by the other 'con's antics, especially when the Autobots didn't seem to understand that Bonecrusher meant business when it came to ihis/i food. He'd had to stifle a snort of laughter each time an Autobot came close to having a goodie fork impaled into an optic. This entertainment only served as partial distraction as the rest of his attentions were on the 'copter making nice in the doorway. Blackout seemed to blossom in the sociable and happy environment, he recognised almost all of the guests as regular customers and didn't hesitate to make small talk with them, something Barricade wasn't going to do. Not even if they paid him.

Smirking as the smaller 'con shifted uncomfortably, in an attempt to hide his feet from the view of Wheeljack, Jazz chuckled to himself, inadvertently drawing Optimus's optics back to him.

"What's so funny?" The Prime smiled, his optics constantly torn between Jazz, his high grade and the bartender going to and fro among the guests serving drinks.

Shaking his helm, Jazz's smile widened. "Nothing, just nice t' see how an event like this still brings everyone together."

"Oh I wouldn't be too sure about that." Optimus replied, nudging Jazz and tilting his helm towards the door.

The Arena boss stood, as if waiting for something, recognition, applause or something that called attention to his unexpected appearance. When the pleasant bustle of the party continued unabashed, Megatron scowled and strolled inside, immediately making his way to one of the more luxurious booths and snapping his fingers to gain the rushed ninjabot's attentions.

Both mechs couldn't help the snicker of amusement as Chromia appeared as if by magic and hovered over Megatron like an earth band groupie, shoving Prowl out of the way, hissing at him to be somewhere else when he whispered an undoubtedly teasing comment into her audio.

Optimus hummed thoughtfully. "You know, I don't know who to feel sorry for more, Megatron or Prowl."

"How about us?" Jazz winced, quickly averting his optics with a grin when the femme all but threw herself at the impressive Decepticon leader.

"Oh, OH… surely they have private rooms." Optimus turned sharply, ducking closer to Jazz as both mechs laughed in mutual amusement.

"There are some things a mech just doesn't want imprinted onto his processor." Jazz chuckled, eyeing the Prime leaning closer to him with an approving optic before downing a large mouthful of high grade in an attempt to wash away the image of Megatron and Chromia. "Speaking of which; would you look at that." Jazz's grin spread into a broad genuine smile as the guests of honour finally appeared.

"They make quite the couple." Optimus mused. "I never would have pegged Lugnut for the settling down type though."

"Peace time changes things OP, a mech's gotta move with the flow."

"Indeed. In some ways I think living during this time is more trying than war."

Jazz pursed his lips in a silent whistle. "Careful what you wish for, mech."

"No, you know what I mean." Optimus frowned, his optics flickering as he tried to back track. "Just it's all politics and friendly gestures."

"You mean, when all you're used t' is fighting, how do you live alongside those you might've shot?"

"Yes. Re-building any kind of trust with the ones who want to live in peace is an uphill struggle, all the time and it always seems on a knife edge from collapse." The Prime sighed, obviously dissatisfied with his current role among the council.

Jazz could relate, after all he was a soldier, one of the Elite, his sole driving purpose had been to put a stop to the Decepticons one way or another and so when it all came to a halt, the white ninja had found himself to be a bit of a loose end. He had more down time now than he did in the field. His missions involved search and capture or rescue, diplomatic relations, things that weren't exactly his forte, yet Jazz knew if given the choice, he wouldn't give up peace to go back to the way it was, no matter how much he might've liked the distraction right now.

The white mech watched as Optimus suddenly tensed beside him, his fingers curling about his glass, optics narrowing as the guests of honour were followed by a distinctive flash of green and black, emphasising the already stark white faceplates of Lockdown.

"Urgh." The red and blue mech grunted distastefully, swallowing his high grade with a clenching jaw.

Tilting his helm at the taller mech, Jazz vented a quiet sigh; he didn't even need to ask why Optimus's demeanour had changed so drastically, it was as clear as Praxian crystal. The mech's optics were fixed on the black and green frame, watching with scrutiny as Lockdown strolled up to the bar and began to make small talk with anyone and everyone in his vicinity, his red optics quite obviously coveting the ninjabot every time he moved past him.

The white ninja couldn't help a smirk as Prowl's distraction became apparent. His skills as a bartender were as such that his drinks still got served without a drop spilled but his movements were less graceful, his attentions frequently lingering on the polished green and black frame propping up his bar.

Arcee began clearing some of the empty tables from the floor with Prowl's help and the music drifting in the background was turned up to a more audible decibel range. Lugnut and Strika were the first on the floor and there weren't two individuals in the room who looked more uncomfortable with having to dance.

Cringing at the awkward display, Lockdown shook his head, put down his drink and strolled straight up to the darker ninja. Taking his hand he led him into the centre of the dance floor, without a word. His deadly hook – temporarily replaced with a workable hand for the evening – curled around Prowl's slender back and tugged him closer with a wide grin, his left optic winking at the startled mech in his clutches before he began to waltz gracefully around the floor, guiding Prowl expertly in a slow formal dance, distracting attention from the two 'cons who; for their part, looked exceedingly grateful.

The sly move from the hunter had Optimus unable to stifle a low growl of disapproval. Jazz downed his high grade and set the glass down onto the table with a firm 'clink' guaranteed to get the red and blue mech's attention.

"Well I think that's my cue." The white ninja stated amicably, burying the disappointment he felt welling up in his spark.

Startled Optimus blinked up in confusion. "But we've only had one drink."

Jazz gave a rueful grin as he got to his feet. "Well I'm sorry to say mech, that I'm not all too keen in playin' second fiddle and I understand that you're otherwise distracted so better that I make myself scarce."

Mouth opening to respond, realisation seemed to wash over Optimus as he glanced at the two waltzing mechs and back at Jazz, his shoulders wilting. "Jazz, I'm sorry. That's so rude of me, it's just—"

"—Look I can tell how you feel about him OP, damn mech I think the whole room can tell so I'm not going to get in your way. Just remember that Prowl's older than he looks, the mech knows what he's doing and where his spark lies." Smiling somewhat sadly at the befuddled Prime, Jazz squeezed his shoulder before turning on his heel.

Jazz didn't want to look back, didn't want to remain; he just wanted to be allowed a dignified exit. He wasn't the type to wait on the sidelines once he'd been pushed aside. He strolled gracefully through the throngs of party goers, threading his way closer to the exit until someone grabbed his wrist tugging him back. In a flash, reacting on instinct, Jazz had the laser edge of his nunchaku out and ready to strike. "What do you want Optimus?"

Optimus inhaled sharply and immediately let go, optics bright as he met Jazz's intense gaze. The white mech had quite obviously reached the end of his patience and he couldn't help but feel he was somehow to blame. "I'm sorry…?"

Relenting, Jazz rubbed his faceplates in frustration. "Do you even know what you're apologising for?"

"Being… rude. Sticking my olfactory sensors in where they don't belong…"

"No, OP! Frag mech, do I have to spell it out for you?"

"I don't know what you want me to say…" Optimus wilted, awkwardly trying not to upset the white ninja. "I mean if you're interested in Prowl then I understand and I'll back off… wha—why are you laughing? I'm serious."

"I know you are, that's why I'm laughing." Jazz sighed and pinched his nose bridge, visor flickering. "Not Prowl, mech." He added softly, taking a step closer to the taller mech, keeping his azure gaze locked on the Prime.

"Lockdo—?"

"—Don't even." Jazz laughed again, holding up a hand to stop Optimus mid-sentence. "Think about it for a klik."

"I don't… I mean….wait…." Intakes stalling, Optimus frowned at the ninja, taking in his softly glowing visor, his insult when he was ready to leave and that gentle yet knowing smirk tugging at his mouth and surprise slowly spread over his face. "Wow…" He breathed quietly. "I never thought…"

"No you didn't." Jazz grinned and gave a slight shrug palms turning up. "So question is; what do you do now?"

"Well I… I think I… um…" Unable to find the right words, his faceplates growing warmer by the second; Optimus floundered like a fish out of water, much to Jazz's amusement before the ninja opted on rescuing the Prime from his debilitating shyness.

"How about, I kiss you and then we can see how we feel from there hm?"

"I um… yes… I'd—I'd like that." Optimus nodded, still finding himself tongue-tied.

Smile widening, Jazz reached a hand up to cup the smoky grey of Optimus's cheek, his fingers curling about the back of his neck, gently tugging him closer until their lips were a mere hair's breadth apart. Holding it there with a teasing grin, feeling the subtle tremor rippling through the red and blue frame, Jazz finally crushed his mouth against Optimus's, kissing him deeply, gently probing his warm entrance with his glossa, humming with enjoyment when the affection was – after some tentative hesitation – reciprocated in kind.

Much to his surprise, Jazz suddenly found himself embraced tightly and pushed up against a nearby table, almost stumbling over a stool in the process, before they fell into a –thankfully unoccupied – booth, mouths locked, glossa entangled, the party around them forgotten as Optimus gladly made up for lost time.


	51. I am Femme, Hear Me Roar

A/N: In celebration of Inamorato's two-year anniversary, I present this long-overdue update! This chapter picks up a few days following the party from the last chapter and attempts to address the mess I've made with both Arcee and Blackarachnia's lovelives. There's even a soundtrack to go along with it, which can be found here: www. youtube .com /playlist?list=PL3ABC77311F4CB6E3 The title is a play on Helen Reddy's song, I am Woman.

Much love to my fellow collaborators, antepathy and Optimus Bob for the beta read. You girls rock! And a big thanks to the readers who have stuck around during the dry spells. I will try to make more regular updates when my schedule allows, but school and life in general have been pretty demanding lately.

Disclaimer: All characters are property of Hasbro.

**I am Femme, Hear Me Roar** _by Toyzintheattik_

"Hey, Widow!" Chromia called out to the sole patron at the bar. "You do know we closed a mega-cycle ago?"

The patron, whose techno-organic form had been somberly occupying that stool for most of the evening—creating a vortex of spiraling gloom around anyone who had sat beside her during the evening—made her best effort to ignore the obnoxious dancer.

"Are you deaf?" Chromia prodded, halting her pole-polishing task. She hopped down to the floor, tossing the cleaning cloth behind her and sashaying to the bar, her hips still on cool down from a full night's work.

Blackarachnia continued to ignore her.

"I said..." Chromia leaned against the bar, blatantly giving the spider a catty once over. "We're closed." Nobody ignored Chromia.

Blackarachnia leaned away, stingers twitching in agitation. She only had so much tolerance for this little whelp. "So what?" She responded with equal cattiness. "Are you kicking me out?"

"I don't give a techrat's aft if you stay or go." Chromia spun on her heel, swinging herself behind the bar. "It's not my club."

Pleased to have won the dark femme's attention, she shifted hers to more interesting things, like the gold-labeled bottles lining the mirror-backed shelves behind the bar. She picked out the finest crystal snifter for herself. "Arcee's the one you want to look out for. She's been cranky ever since Strika took time off for planning her bonding ceremony." Chromia reached for a top shelf bottle, keeping an optic on the spider while she also admired her own sparkling reflection. One of the perks of the job was the freedom to layer on the shimmer wax, a luxury she had never been allowed while serving in the Guard.

"Someone's about to get the boot!" A reprimanding voice rained down from the balcony. "And it's not going to be the customer."

Chromia recoiled from her tip-toed reach, cursing herself for letting her guard down to her boss's whereabouts.

The candy-striped madam descended down the curved staircase with a seasoned grace, manicured digits brushing along the ornate railing. Like Chromia, Arcee never had the luxury of vanity during her time in the guard, but it wasn't simply due to uniform code. Cybertron had been at war and the school teacher-turned-soldier was committed to the cause. She had never bothered with such trivial self indulgence like cosmetic chassis waxes and aesthetic upgrades until only recently, after opening Inamorato, and even then, she only did it to keep up appearances. That's just what madams do. However, the decorated war veteran never lost her edge to her new style of decoration, especially not when she was in charge of a staff populated with probationary Decepticons.

She fixed a glare on Chromia, who stood with her arms crossed, glaring back defiantly.

"Chromia," Arcee spoke neutrally. "What have I told you about taking freebies from the top shelf?"

"Not to get caught." The dancer grumbled, wings twitching beneath the clamps. She bitterly snagged a bottle from a middle shelf and poured her glass full.

The bratty remark only earned the unruly mothbot a disapproving rise of her boss's pearly white brow ridge, a look Arcee had mastered from her years of teaching. Even Chromia knew to back off from that.

"What's your poison?" Arcee shifted her attention to Blackarachnia, who was readying herself to leave. The soldier in Arcee was eager to see the predacon out the door, uncomfortable with the idea that she was alone at the club with two Autobot turncoats. However, the madam in her couldn't help but wonder what could have driven a normally reclusive enemy to seek sanctuary at her club. Elita-One had never been a barfly, not that Arcee could recall.

"Oh…" Blackarachnia blinked, halted by the unexpected hospitality, which she wasn't about to turn down. "Just…" she blindly scanned the rows of labels, attempting to feign nonchalance, barely registering the type of grade let alone the names. "The house special is fine." She reclaimed her warmed seat on the padded stool, her movement stiff and slightly awkward. She could feel both sets of azure optics on her, studying her, questioning why she was here. Could they know? She hoped not. She didn't want to talk about it. She just wanted a night off, away from him. She wanted to be distracted. "So, Arcee," she spoke with a forced curiosity. "Are your customers enjoying the new line of wax?"

"Yes." Arcee auto-responded, keeping an inquisitive gaze locked on the predacon as she poured two glasses of the fine gold label. She could sense it was a night for the highest of the high grades, recognizing a familiar turmoil in the four crimson optics. She glanced at Chromia, who was tipping the last gulp of mid-grade through her garishly sparkling lips, then poured a third glass. She slid a glass to Blackarachnia, then to the pleasantly surprised dancer then claimed one for herself.

Leaning into her palm, her other hand tracing the brim of her glass, Arcee fixed her gaze back on the somber spider. "Tell me, honeysuckle…is he worth it?"

"What?" Blackarachnia sputtered. "What do you—how did you know?"

"It's a small town, sweetheart." The madam replied, in-venting a waft of the bronze liquid she now swirled in front of her.

"I don't want to talk about it." Blackarachnia looked away.

Arcee and Chromia exchanged glances before Arcee spoke again. "Look here, sweets. The price of afterhours customer service is a full confession of what initially drove that aft onto my stool.

"Yeah." Chromia chimed in, cupping her high grade like a prize. "So either spill it or split."

Blackarachnia felt all eight limbs stiffen under the pressure, Cybertronian circuitry strangling organic tissues. What had she gotten herself into? This was supposed to be a detour from her troubles, not a head-on collision with them. She simply wanted to drown it all away tonight.

"I can't...It's nothing..." The spider squirmed and fidgeted, knowing what to say, searching frantically for an excuse to leave but coming up dry. Finally, and without warning, her spark claimed control of her vocalizer.

"I don't know!" Blackarachnia wailed. "I don't know if he's worth it. I don't know, I don't know, I DON'T KNOW." The outburst was surprisingly cathartic. She only stopped to take a hefty draught from her drink. "He was once. He used to tell me I was beautiful. He taught me to appreciate my organic body. He praised my engineering knowledge and told me that he needed me. Said we made the perfect team, that our specialized skills complimented each other." Her volume began waning, and words became broken. "But, now…I don't know. He…all he talks about is...himself, and his plans. He doesn't even listen to me anymore. He's even making plans for my boutique. MY boutique…acting like he owns the place simply because I'm letting him stay—" She cut off abruptly, worried she had said too much. Chromia may report all of this back to Megatron.

"Frag that loser." Chromia barked. "He's not worth the grime we scrap off the washroom flo—"

"You don't know him!" Blackarachnia defended. "You haven't seen the side of him that I have, or—"

"Thank Primus for that!" Chromia interrupted. "I know all I need to know: he's a pathetic, whiney, back-stabbing, ego-maniac, not worth even a shred of your heartache."

"He—I…" Blackarachnia deflated, knowing there was a lot of truth to Chromia's words. "You," she was now scrounging for a retort, "sound just like Megatron."

"Good!" Chromia smiled, flattered. "He's the expert in judging your precious little seeker's inadequacies."

"Used to be," Blackarachnia countered. "Starscream's changed since the old days."

"Yeah, right." Chromia laughed. "What's he …renounced overthrowing Megatron? Given up his pursuit of ruling Cybertron? Turned over a new panel and joined the Cyber Ninja corps?" The dancer's laughter crescendoed, spreading to Arcee who couldn't help let slip a few giggles at the image of Starscream lined up with Springer's new ninja recruits.

Blackarachnia went silent, sinking down into her drink, cursing herself for expecting even a shred of understanding. Who was she kidding? No one ever gave Starscream the benefit of the doubt before. Why would they start now? "Neither of you have seen what he's capable of."

Arcee's mirth quickly dissipated when she heard the very real pain in Blackarachnia's voice. She should have known better than to laugh along with Chromia. Heartache was never a laughing matter, no matter who the second party was.

"Honey," Arcee spoke softly, "there may just be a noble bot buried deep down inside of him, but how much of yourself are you willing to sacrifice to recover it?" She placed her hand on the spider's hybrid arm. "You don't need him. From what I've heard about you...all you've been through, what you've accomplished…you don't need anyone. Why would sell yourself short?"

"Because I love him." That came out easier than Blackarachnia had wanted. It also stung more than it should. She thought it should hurt less each time she admitted it.

"Love's not a good enough reason." Arcee said,said her voice hardening.

"Love is for pussiebots!" Chromia added, shattering the moment. "It only makes you weak. Look at you! You went from being a Venus cover model to this."

"You're one to talk." Blackarachnia snapped. "Little miss Megatron groupie. You're in no position to judge my love interest."

"I can judge all I want." Chromia stood her ground. "Megatron and Starscream are night and day. Titanium to tin. Top shelf to leaked lubrica—"

"I get the idea!" The predacon growled.

"I don't think you do," Chromia continued. "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here spilling your spider guts all over our club."

"Screw you, flutterbot!" Blackarachnia was fed up with the dancer's incessant badgering. "If Megatron's so great, then why isn't he in command of Cybertron? Why are we governed by that halfwit Sentinel?"

"Megatron is simply buying his time," Chromia stated with assurance. "Waiting for that perfect moment to strike."

Arcee, despite her annoyance at the pair's disregard for the club's rules against discussing politics, was also intrigued to hear more. "I suppose you know when that perfect moment is?"

"Why yes I do." Chromia sat up straight, wings rising with the inflating of her chest. "The moment he appoints me his right-hand-bot."

Arcee and Blackarachnia exchanged skeptical glances then burst into harmonious laughter.

Chromia held her ground, hardened to ridicule. "Laugh it up, unbelievers. My day will come."

"You're delusional," Blackarachnia chuckled, now feeling better about her seemingly hopeless love life."

"That's exactly what they said about Megatron eons ago, when he took that first stand in the mines," Chromia stated.

"I hate to burst your bubble," Blackarachnia actually enjoyed bursting Chromia's bubble, "but Megatron is a council vote away from the gutter he started out in. Magnus intends to shut him down by taxing the slag out of the arena. Our precious leader could elect Alpha Trion as his second in command, but that won't stop Sentinel from spike-blocking his business with unfair levies."

Chromia rolled her optics. "Don't bore me with your novice understanding of Cybertronian politics. Once Megatron makes me second, the Deceptions' day will come."

Blackarachnia was gearing up for a retort but the rapping of Arcee's digits on the counter distracted her.

"You know," Arcee intervened, a warning tone in her soft vocals, "I didn't hang that sign over the entrance for my health."

Blackarachnia glanced toward the doorway even though she already knew what the sign read. 'Leave your politics at the door.'

"That applies to employees too," Arcee pointed a scolding finger at Chromia. "Enough with the arguing over Megatron and Starscream. You too are worse than the drunken mechs who sword fight in the washrooms."

"She started it!" Chromia gestured to the spider, who crossed her arms and stingers in offense.

"I don't care who started it." Arcee's patience was wearing thin. "It ends here."

Blackarachnia was quickly feeling like she had worn out her welcome. "I should get going. Thank you, Arcee, for-"

"Sit back down, missy," Arcee ordered the predacon, "I'm not through with you."

Blackarachnia froze for a defensive moment before relenting to do as commanded.

"I am not," Arcee continued, "letting you walk out my door until you've gotten your processor straightened out. We as femmes-"

"Oh for spark's sake," Chromia rolled her optics. "He she goes again."

"We as femmes," Arcee resumed, proudly stepping onto her soapbox, "cannot complacently idle in the pit stop and let these mechs use and abuse us whenever they need an oil change."

The Decept-femmes needed a moment to translate the metaphor into something a non-vehicle bot could understand.

"I never would have been upgraded," Arcee continued," "from Teaching Unit RC-687-040 to an Elite Guard Intelligence Officer had I not stood up for my rights and insisted femmes be given the chance to join the draft. I would not have earned the honor of commanding my Omega Sentinel had I not-"

"But…" Chromia interrupted. "You never actually got to—"

"That's beside the point." Arcee reclaimed the conch. "What matters is that I paved the way for Autobot femmes to earn high ranking positions in the Elite Guard. You never would have weaseled your way into Intelligence division if it weren't for me and my fellow Teaching Units. Elita-One," she gestured to Blackarachnia, "would never have been put in the same class of recruits as Optimus and Sentinel if we hadn't made our vocals heard. Inamorato would not have come to be if I didn't stand up to The Council and challenged Cybertron's old ways of thinking."

"That must have felt good," Chromia remarked with a vengeful smirk. "Using those bureaucratic bolthead's own peace treaty against them."

"No." Arcee's voice grew distant. "It didn't."

Confusion washed over both of the younger femme's' faceplates.

Arcee continued, clutching her glass tightly. "It drove Ratchet away. It distanced me from several of my old colleagues, and past students even ridiculed me. Everyone thought the memory glitches had permanently damaged my processor." She paused, taking a deep intake, spark tightening beneath her chest plates. "And maybe they did…but certainly not for the worse." Her gaze hardened onto Blackarachnia's pondering expression. "No matter how the eons have changed me, no matter what I have been through, I have always stuck by what I used to teach my students: Think for yourself, and always be true to your spark."

Silence fell upon Inamorato as Blackarachnia and Chromia let the madam's words sink in.

Chromia shifted uncomfortably as she stared introspectively into her drink. She wasn't used to feeling convicted by anyone's words but Megatron's. But now this Autobot had her questioning her own goals, wondering if she had always been selling herself short by seeking the arm of power, rather than power itself. She had made a damned fine diplomat for the Elite Guard. Who was to say she alone couldn't be a magnus...or a tyrant.

Blackarachnia mulled over her own thoughts, fidgeting with her blue-tipped fingers. They were a constant reminder of Starcream's stint of nobility. he had put so much on the line for her, and for Cybertron. But could she keep on living feeling indebted to him? Couldn't it be possible to love him without selling herself short? It was her boutique after all…and her life.

"Arcee." Blackarachnia broke the silence. "Do you...still love Ratchet?"

Arcee winced. The question was direct. But she understood why the predacon was asking. "Of course I do. And it splits my spark everyday to know that I hurt him. But I did what I had to do and haven't once regretted it."

"Pfff," Chromia sassed. "That's easy to say now. The old rust bucket's starting to realize he's an idiot. He's been sniffing around this place again. In fact, he was here just the other day…said he 'happen to be in the neighborhood.'" She overemphasized that last line, shaking her head and rolling her optics.

"He-," Arcee perked up, optics brightening. "He did?"

"Yeah," Chromia smirked. "You were out shopping so I told him to beat it and come back when he grew a pair."

"Chromia!" Arcee scolded. "Why didn't you—? I wasn't gone very long. You could have let him stay, offered him a drink—"

"Frag that." Chromia argued. "Geriatric care is not in my job description."

Arcee ex-vented in exasperation. "Oh for spark's sake."

Blackarachnia sipped her drink quietly, ignoring the banter, too caught up in her thoughts. She then took a deep intake, tilted back the last swig of her drink, and rose from the stool, standing tall with her stingers held high.

"This isn't going to be easy." Her raspy voice cracked more than normal, but there was also newly born assuredness in her tone. "But I know what I need to do."

She gave Arcee a grateful nod then turned on her spiked heel and exited Inamorato with a determined click-clacking stride. Chromia and Arcee watched her go, feeling like some little battle for all femmes planet wide had just been won.

"Too bad we can't watch her dump that loser." Chromia finally spoke up after Blackarachnia was gone. Arcee snorted, collecting the empty glasses from the bar and giving Chromia a sidelong glance.

"It seems to me that you would want her to stay with him."

"Why the frag would I want that?"

"Because," Arcee smirked. "Who do you think Starscream's going to run to once he realizes he's alone?"

Chromia blinked, her faceplates washing over in horror. "Oh slag."


	52. For Science

A/N: This picks up directly following the events of the previous chapter and segues into The Plot that is in the making. I anticipate updates to happen more regularly from here out now that my lovely collabs and I are regularly scheming once again**, **scouring our All Spark Almanacs for juicy canon and new and exciting characters to inject into the fray, mwahahhah!

Enjoy!**  
**

**For Science** _by ToyzInTheAttic_

"He has converted me," Blackarachnia swung between the structures of Kaon's business district with a determined force, "into nothing but a blubbering fool!"

Having just departed from her unexpected pep-talk at Inamorato, her spirits were high and her will was strong. Her webbing streamed out rhythmically, fibers woven tautly, born from the richly condensed energon she had just consumed in excess at the club. But despite the enhanced organic grappling lines, she had to keep her swings short and quick as the webbing didn't grab as firmly to Cybertron's unique alloys the way it could to the porous masonry of Detroit's high-rises. That was one of many aspects she missed about Earth. It was probably for the better though. As much as she enjoyed the cathartic release of long, gliding swoops, the quicker bursts were more reflective of her mood and her intentions, of which she needed to keep intact by the time she reached Parlour Trix.

Arcee had been right: Blackarachnia didn't need Starscream anymore. She did once upon a time, back on Earth when her motivations were less complicated, and his human-infused being was something worth needing, but all that has changed. He was not the bot she resurrected him to be. The admirable human influence was gone, lost to the universe at some point between the Quintesson threat and Starscream's return. Blackarachnia would like to blame Megatron and his eight hundredth attempt to offline Starscream, but her gut told her Starscream was the one responsible for the man's demise-he was just too noble an entity to permanently inhabit the mind of a mech like Starsceam.

Blackarachnia should have learned by now to stop falling for the noble types. They never came through for her.

Not that she needed any of them anyhow! Her real love was for science: for innovative engineering. For experimenting and discovering! That was a passion worth living for, and she had a gift for it, just like Elita One. No, BETTER than Elita. The spider's work with the sciences had always given her a sense of fulfillment and usefulness. It even made her happy on occasion. She could always rely on it to be there for her. She always knew where she stood with her work, and that was on the path of continual learning and improvement. She was an asset to any faction. How many times had Megatron praised her achievements with weapon enhancements and upgrades. Blitzwing would have been a goner if she hadn't rebuilt him with her trademark triple-changer technology-she should seriously get that patented...once she works out the personality kinks of course.

Blackarachnia didn't need the help of anyone else to survive, and she never did need anyone. She had her shop, her wits, her striking looks, and her resourcefulness. Given enough time, she was certain she could decipher the meaning of the energon-conversion formula on her own. Starscream was now useless where that was concerned since he no longer carried the human's in-depth knowledge of organic chemistry. She was much more suited to the task than he was. She would crack the formula's code and build her own energon-converter-the ultimate bargaining chip for a universe of entitlement and recognition from whichever faction she wanted it from. The conversion technology was more valuable than Velocitron's crystal regrowth enhancements. Governments would pay through the denta for it! She would prove to the Elite Guard and that buffoon Sentinel that she was far more than some unfortunate mutation. Cybertron would be her oyster; she would never have to depend on anyone again. Her name would go down in history as the hero of the energon crisis: the brilliant scientist that cracked the code of converting organic material into planet-saving energon.

Blackarachnia smiled at the images painted on her cortex.

Three more swings until reaching Parlour Trix. She was more ready to be rid of that manipulative leech than she had ever been.

She planted down on spiked heels at the entrance to her store, riding high on her aspirations. Swinging the door open, she entered with one bold step. It was dark, as she liked it, blackout curtains blocking intrusive morning rays, but something was off. Starscream typically had the place lit up in the morning so he could see his many, incomplete tinkering projects. Blackarachnia took a couple more steps, senses alert and detecting an unusual displacement to her normal merchandise layout. She stopped when she kicked a cylinder of Glitter Glide Lubricant and sent it rolling across the floor. It clunked to a stop, it's sound was replaced by the most devilish cackling she had ever heard.

Cyber-adrenaline taking the wheel, Blackarachnia whirled into widow-mode and sprung with a 180-turn onto the ceiling, webbing ready to fire at the first hostile blob in her now-activated infrared. She quickly detected two blobs, one distinctly seeker-shaped and the other unrecognizable and alien, but glowing much hotter than the mech she assumed was an unconscious Starscream. Its glow was exactly how she imagined she would look under infrared, organic functions radiating more heat than Cybertronian. Neither blob moved. Both just sat sprawled on the floor, but the cackling kept coming in unnerving waves, causing the brighter blob to jiggle ungraciously.

Suddenly, the seeker blob let out a sigh and then slapped the wall, triggering the light to spill answers all around Blackarachnia. "Enough games." Starscream said way too casually as he was revealed to be very much awake, but not in the condition she had left him. His armor bore all the signs of a fight.

"Relax, Blackarachnia." Starscream attempted his calming voice, which was always more annoyingly theatrical than genuine. "We have a lot to discuss."

"You're telling me!" Blackarachnia spat, appalled at the scene before her. The shop's interior was trashed, far worse than the time Starscream and Lockdown had duked it out. Shelving was toppled and broken, wax containers were cracked open and littered the floor, artificial spikes lay scattered like artillery shells. And amidst the chaos was the second culprit, also seated casually on the floor, arachnid legs sprouting from his back and hanging limply, betraying signs of exhaustion. She had never seen this bot before, nor had she ever seen anyone like him outside her reflection in the mirror, but she knew exactly who he was.

"Tarantulus," she hissed, repulsed yet fascinated, and repulsed even more at being so fascinated. He was the offspring of hideous and beautiful, but she couldn't tell if the hideous came from his garishly shiny Cybertronian armor or exotically furry organic limbs. Either way, she couldn't take her optics from him.

"At your service, madam." It responded with a nod then chuckled again as if repeatedly tickled by a malicious inside joke. She wondered what was so fragging funny. Perhaps the sight of them both? Sprawled pathetically behind her check-out counter, surrounded by colorful merchandise of every rating, their chassis dented, scratched, charred, and even glistening in spots from globs of spilled shimmering wax. She would laugh too if she wasn't so infuriated, and confused. It didn't make sense what she was looking at. It made sense that these two would fight given their recent history, but fight to the finish, not peter out into what looked like the come down from a pair of drunken academy bots on an all-night bender.

"What's going on here, Starscream?" She never took her four optics off of Tarantulus, and he never broke his stare on her. "Why is he here?" Her voice had kept its edge from before, following Arcee's pep talk.

"He," Starscream vied for the spotlight, "is the missing link to rebuilding the energon converter."

The words slammed Blackarachnia cortex, like buckets of paint splattering across a her mural of ambition. No one else was suppose to know about their plans for the converter, but here Starscream was, casually spewing out their secrets to the very bot who robbed him of his human counterpart.

"We now have everything we need to begin planning." Starsream continued, rapping his talon tips. "I have the formula. Tarantulus can decipher it, and you, Blackarachnia..." He paused, cruelly, knowing she was on the brink of a meltdown. "You will be our liaison to Megatron.

Brakes screeched in Blackarachnia's processor. She whirled down into root mode, impaling Starscream with a four-optic strong incredulous stare.

"Your what!" She couldn't believe what she was hearing.

Starscream hauled his battered frame to his feet, offering a hand for Tarantulus to follow suit. "Allow me to explain." He arched his back, working out a couple pops and kinks then fell easily into his "scheme delivering" pacing, one hand tucked back at his wing base while the other proceeded to accentuated his words with showy flourishes. Blackarachnia just stood, stingers cocked, always keeping a vigilant watch on Tarantulus. She didn't care that Starscream now apparently trusted him, she wasn't ready to. How these mechs shifted from dueling enemies to allies in the span of a showdown was beyond her, yet not an uncommon system of negotiations between Decepticons. While she was disgusted and enraged by the events before her, she certainly wasn't surprised, and she'll be damned if she's trusting.

"The converter we are going to build," Starscream spoke with his typically delusional confidence, "must be on an exponentially grander scale than the first one you and I built. Otherwise there is no point. Unless we," he paused to chuckle, which triggered another wave of irritating cackling from Tarantulus "_merely_want to become independently wealthy for the rest of our functioning. We need factories of converters, the bot-power to operate them, convoys to scour the galaxy for resources, and most importantly, we need the ability to mask our operations from that blasted watch-dog Elite Guard. This is where..." Starscream paused again, his face twitching to a sneer, "Megatron is needed." He quickly recomposed himself. "The underground catacombs beneath his arena are the only suitable place to base our operations. It will be...the staging grounds of the grandest Decepticon uprising Cybertron has ever seen."

"Stow the dramatics." Blackarachnia couldn't count the times she had heard similar speeches and she would be thoroughly annoyed if this plan actually didn't sound like it might work. "Why pick me to break the ice with Megatron? He doesn't trust me."

"You..." Starscream leaned toward her, attempting (and failing) at his charming act. "Are the lesser of three evils. He will listen to you before he listens to a long-exiled Decepticon-turned-mutant, and especially to me."

"Aren't you..." Tarantulus chortled, "being redundant?"

"Shut up!" Starcream snapped, unamused.

Blackarachnia sighed, shaking her head. "Assuming he does take us at our word, how can we trust him?" Did she really have to state the obvious? "What's to stop him from offlining you once he has his hands on our discovery?"

Starscream laughed, heartily and a bit psychotically, letting it climax obnoxiously then slide down into a telling tale of perpetual turmoil. It was an unsettling laugh, one that even Tarantulus didn't join in on. "Megatron can't offline me." There was a stinging and perplexing truth to Starscream's darkened words, Blackarachnia couldn't deny it. "So, Blackarachnia..." Sometimes she hated the way he said her name, as if pronouncing each syllable was a hassle. "Are you with us?"

Did she have a choice? What other options were there? Declare herself a neutral kink shop owner while her faction stages the grandest coup Cybertron has seen in eons? Step aside and let other Decepticon scientists have all the fun? Not in a million stellars. She would not relinquish control of the formula that easily.

Turning on her heel, she made for the door.

"Where are you going?" Starscream barked.

"To get some fresh atmosphere." She carelessly waved off Starscream's now commanding presence, grasping desperately at the boldness she had when entering her shop.

Stepping outside, she was instantly bathed in warm morning oranges. It was a time of day she typically recharged through, but today it was a welcome change to soak it in. She sprung onto the roof with a grappling stream of webbing, not wanting to deal with any early bird passer-bys, then ducked behind the cover of Parlour Trix's flashy neon sign.

"So much for my brilliant scheme." She murmured with a bitter, shameful defeat.

It wasn't a solar cycle before the spider heard the front door open, followed by the ignition of a pair of thruster heels which quickly tapped down beside her.

"Why are femmes so puzzlingly fickle?" Wrong thing to say, Starscream. Blackarachnia glared up at him, his angular form silhouetted by the morning rays.

"You're blocking my light." Specifically the one at the end of her endlessly dark tunnel.

Starscream stepped aside with a huff, letting the light spill onto her again. He opened his mouth to snap his disapproval of her attitude, but refrained when his optics took in the dazzling sparkle of the solar rays on her gold detailing. He hadn't seen her in a fresh morning light since their time together on Earth. Sometimes, he forgot how uniquely beautiful she was. Even while crumpled into a unacceptable pity party before him.

He sighed, relenting to sympathy. Okay, so, yeah, they did trash her shop, and he did spring a new partner on her, all in one morning. "I suppose you want to know more about my dealings with Tarantulus?"

She shot him a dumbfounded look of 'do you really need to ask?' "Alright, alright." Starscream made placating hand gestures. "So I already told you about how he and those other two techno-organics were the ones that rehabilitated me, but what I didn't tell you..." He fought the urge to maneuver around the subject, knowing Blackarachnia would not be pleased. "Is that during my time with them, I had asked Tarantulus to extract the human's...emotions from my processor, and he, being the backhanded opportunist he is, as any Decepticon should be...helped himself to the entire entity of my human counterpart."

Blackarachnia stared for an awkwardly silent moment, then bowed her head and let it hang there in a suspended state of...what? Disappointment? He was expecting a lash out-some kind of rant about undoing all the work she had done on him. Not that her feelings on the matter are of a concern to him. Starscream has been glad to rid himself of that human's moral influence. What happens inside his own processor is his call to make. So, why was her lack of response making him feel so uneasy? She should be glad he's back to his old self. _He_certainly is!

"Talk to me." Starscream demanded unsympathetically.

Blackarachnia kept her head bowed, silently, helm crest resting on her spiny bracers, her only movement the slow rise and fall of her ventilations. Starscream's patience was growing thin. He kept shifting his weight between thrusters, fighting back the urge to tap his toe as he would with anyone else. Didn't she know how much seekers hated to wait? When she finally spoke, is was barely above a whisper, as if she were talking to herself.

"His name was Faraday. Dr. William Faraday. He was renowned on earth for his work with biochemistry. He was a beloved professor, with an entourage of hopeful protégés. He was a candidate for the humans' next Nobel Prize award."

"Why are you telling me this?" Starscream snapped, feeling extremely uneasy now. His conscience hasn't pinged this hard since the human was still in him. Why was she saying this? Why should he care!

Blackarachnia lifted her head, finally meeting Starscream's optics, her optics distant and volatile. "I murdered him. I brought suffering to countless humans by removing him from their equation, and for what?"

"I never asked you merge me with a human!" Starscream floundered. "His blood is on your servos."

The spider twitched. She then shrunk, face backing into the shadows again. "You didn't deserve him." Her voice was venom. "You never appreciated what you had. And now you've gone and tossed him into oblivion, or worse, into the mind of that...thing you now call a partner."

"It was my call to make." Starscream snarled. He didn't at all appreciate being guilt-tripped for something he was more than justified for doing, especially not from her. Decepticons don't bother with guilt. Perhaps Cybertron's smog of peace was surfacing her Autobot roots.

"Your judgement has something to be desired."

"I know exactly what I am doing!" Starscream's circuits fizzled. "Once we've..." He cut off, looking around cautiously then lowering his volume. "Once Tarantulus has deciphered the formula, I intend to study his work and learn it for myself. I knew how to do it once and I find it hard to believe a mere fleshling can't prevent me from learning it again."

"Dr, Faraday," she adamantly spoke the name, "dedicated his life to his work. It's not something you can simply pick up overnight without physically embodying his essence again. That was the whole point of my experiment."

"My processor is far advanced to that of a transplanted human's." Starscream refused to give the human credit for his discovery. "It took my brilliant spectrum of intelligence combined with his limited knowledge to crack the conversion code."

"Exactly, Starscream." Blackarachnia's exasperation was steadily increasing her volume. "_Combined_. You could have never done it without him, or me."

"Don't you _dare_ take credit for _my_ discovery!" She was going too far. "_I_ was the one who came up with the formula and _I_am the one who gets to decide what to do with it! So enough with..." he gestured wildly, "whatever this is! I need to know where you stand."

Blackarachnia's four optics became mere scarlet slits that burned red lasers into him. Slowly, she rose to her feet, holding her stare, studying him as if sizing up her prey. Starscream was growing impatient with her protests and deliberations. Why was she making this so difficult? It was what she wanted, after all: for the two of them to be together, to jointly lead a Decepticon comeback. She wasn't fragging him for his good looks, that much he knew. Was she conflicted by her former Autobot loyalties? She better not be. Not after all they had been through together. She was on his side now, one of the few he could rely on to support his dethroning of Megatron. He needed her influence to spread among the other Decepticons, her cunning manipulations to show them who was really suited to lead their faction. She was vital to his plan and he needed an answer from her now!

"Forget the past, Blackarachnia, it is of no concern." Arguing would get them nowhere. He needed to convince her diplomatically. "I need to know that you are still with me on this, otherwise I have to assume you are against me." Okay so that was less diplomatic and more a cheap tactic that Megatron had always used, and Starscream should be ashamed of himself, but instead he now understood the value of it. It left no room for alternative options and created a means to an end much quicker.

Blackarachnia studied him with a scowl, an armor penetrating scowl that chilled the energon pulsing now uneasily through him. She was the utmost picture of dangerous beauty when she got like this-radiant and unpredictable, and a pleasant distraction from his impatience with her. He loved seeing her this way. She was stunning: a work of mutated art. Leave it to those foolish Autobots to label her a freak, completely blinded to the unique and beneficial enhancements her accident gave her. Starscream had always been sincere when he said she was better off how she was, and he was grateful that she actually listened to him, for embracing her upgraded identity instead of loathing it, which simply made her that much more desirable.

She stepped out of the shadows and crept into his EM field, hybrid armor once again gleaming brilliantly under the orange rays. His energon still pulsed uneasily, but now in a welcoming way, awakening his acute sensors, his injuries stinging delightfully. He was ready to take whatever she had to offer. She rose up to her tip toes, lining up their lip plating and placing her blue-tipped claws on his cheek, her finger on his lips. "You know where I stand, Starscream." Her tone bled with venom. She ran her sharp digit over his mouth and down his chin, purposefully scratching deep enough to hurt. He gritted his denta and couldn't help but shudder. He was ready to let her pin him down and frag him senseless, uncaring to the unsupervised predacon in the shop beneath them. Uncaring to their exposure to the awakening world around them. He would gladly let her have her way with him, especially if it resulted in her pledged alliance. When she spoke again, he could taste it hot on his glossa.

"I am going to go for a walk." Not her most seductive choice of words, but Starscream still enjoyed their flavor. "When I return, I expect to find you and your boyfriend GONE. I will join your alliance and I will be your liaison to Megatron, but you will not base your operations in _my_ shop and risk attracting unwanted attention from the Elite Guard. Go _charm_ your way into some abandoned warehouse and do not contact me until you two have built a working prototype I can present to Megatron. In the meantime, you will leave me alone to salvage what is left of my business and my dignity."

And with a sudden turn, she was gone, careening off into Kaon's business district, cruelly ripping away all her promising warmth and leaving Starscream in a perplexing state of unquenchable arousal to ponder, with impressive mix of frustration and admiration, what in the sixth moon of Eternia just happened.


	53. Last Call

"Last Call" by antepathy, aka Introducing The Subplots.

G  
TFA Inamorato AU  
Blackout, Barricade, Arcee, Prowl, Drift, Dai Atlas  
no warnings

Blackout edged around the sleeping mech, facedown on the bar. It wasn't that unusual to have mechs pass out, but it was a little odd to have it happen, face smushed flat against the bar. Whoever the small white mech was, he was out cold. "Uh, hey." Blackout prodded with one large claw, at the high white shoulder armor. "You okay?"

The face slid sideways, one optic cracking open. "Mrfph."

Blackout knew from long experience with Barricade that that was a 'yes'. Still, couldn't hurt to have a second opinion. /Madam Arcee?/

She came on comm sounding tired. It had been a long night—another bachelor party for a member of the Elite Guard, and Blackout had seen Ratchet skulking about a bit, too. /Problem, Blackout?/

/New mech. Kind of out of it./ The plea for help carried in his voice. He knew she trusted him, even though he was, like, a 'con and stuff and not very bright, but sometimes he didn't trust himself. It would be bad if someone got sick or hurt. The Autobot authorities were looking for any excuse to shut the place down, even if it meant cutting out Arcee's income.

Which sucked, as Barricade would say, because they owed her.

/I'll be right there, Blackout./

He nodded, forgetting for a klik it was comm, and waited, tilting his head at the smaller mech, until she appeared in the doorway from the back offices. Yeah, tired. Definitely tired. Blackout felt a twinge of guilt. But he wouldn't have asked her if he didn't really want her help.

"New mech," Blackout said, pointing unnecessarily at the slumped white figure, the long line of the sword down his back. "Musta come with the party." Which was why his weapon hadn't been checked. Blackout was always nervous on these 'event' nights, but, well, mostly because he'd hate to shoot giant holes in the place he worked in the name of keeping the peace. Barricade had a word for it. Like…peer-ick victory or something. It certainly sounded icky.

"Should just pick him up and dump his Autobot aft on the curb," Barricade slid a plastic crate down the bar, filling it with dirty dishes and glasses. He didn't work here—the idea of a regular job kind of stuck in his craw—but he'd taken up the habit of puttering around, waiting for the copter to get off shift. He'd explained, loudly, several times that it was not at all from some generosity of motive, just that 'helping' (and he always said the word like it was the name of some CTD) meant the copter got done sooner. Only Barricade could make helping out…selfish.

Which was why Blackout loved him.

"Barricade," Arcee admonished. "He's intoxicated, not trash."

"Hmph. Mech can't hold his high grade." He snatched the half-empty cube away from the limp fingers, tilted his head, and then downed the rest. "What? Gonna let it go to waste? Autobots paid for that booze."

"I see." Arcee sighed, shaking her head, before she bent over, trying to catch the other's optic, which had drifted closed again. "Excuse me? Do you need help?" No response. Until she laid a comforting hand on the white projection of the other's shoulder armor.

Movement, faster than Blackout could track, one hand sweeping up, catching the pink wrist and pinning it to the bar's nickel surface. The head arced off the bar, optics blue and blazing.

"Don't." Barricade's energon blade, even faster, pink and humming hot, appeared under the other's throat.

The other mech blinked, the hardness slipping off his face, replaced by a bleary, drunken confusion, optics struggling to focus on the blade, or Barricade's set face. "Sorry," he managed to mumble.

"Fraggin better be," Barricade muttered, flicking the blade back into its housing.

And then the mech slipped off the stool, crashing on the floor in a pile of limbs.

Arcee and Blackout exchanged puzzled looks: Arcee rubbing her wrist. Poor mech was no threat to anyone but himself. Blackout scooped him up. "What do we do now?"

"I suppose we can call the event hosts," Arcee said, with a sigh. More trouble, with the Elite Guard no less. "He was their guest."

"Dai Atlas," Prowl said, lugging in a rack of dishes from the prep room in the back. "You'll want to call Dai Atlas." His thin mouth pinched, as though whatever recollection he had of that mech, they weren't good ones.

"You know who he is, Prowl?"

A disapproving frown. "Drift."

The head lolled up on Blackout's arm, blue optics blearily trying to focus. "Whuzzah?"

Prowl pointedly ignored the white mech. "He lacks…discipline." And he cut himself off, as though that were the start of a very, very long list.

"Plenny a dishiplishinine," Drift mumbled.

"Yeah, I can tell. You're just oozing the stuff," Barricade smirked. "Oh, wait, that's high grade."

Arcee sighed. "Blackout, take him to one of the back rooms, and take care of him? I'll call this Dai Atlas."

A squirm in Blackout's arms. "No! No! 'M okay. Dai Atlas's's's'sn bed or something'r other by now." He wriggled, trying to stand.

Blackout clamped his arms around the smaller chassis. "Madam Arcee says no." It was all Blackout needed to know. She was the bosslady. End of story.

"Problem with all that squirmy ninja stuff," Barricade observed, folding his arms casually over the plastic bin as Blackout carried the white mech away, "You kinda gotta be able to actually stand to pull it off."

[***]

Dai Atlas swept in like an icy breeze from the polar plains, his radiant chill managing to do more to sober up the white mech than the half-cycle of time or the stimulant drink Blackout had pressed into his hand: one of the concoctions Barricade brewed up for himself. Sort of a peace-offering, Barricade had muttered, shoving it with ill grace into Blackout's hand.

Drift hunched in the chair, suddenly finding the orange dregs fascinating.

"Drift." Dai Atlas's tone was beyond frosty. Even Blackout got a chill.

"Yes, master," Drift said.

"Inappropriate behavior, you realize." Dai Atlas stepped closer, the frown sharper than the blade he wore.

"Didn't hurt anybody." The voice was small, very small and for a klik Blackout felt a little sorry for the mech. Wasn't his fault: some mechs just couldn't handle their high grade. And all he'd done, after all, is plonk into recharge.

"That is not the point." Dai Atlas pitched his voice louder, seemingly gratified as the volume made the smaller mech wince. "You represent all of us when you are in public."

"Hey," Blackout said. "No big deal. I mean, we get overcharged mechs all the time. Kinda the point of the place and stuff."

"With all due respect," Dai Atlas said, drawing himself up, tingling with outrage, "You do not know Drift's history. This sort of…lack of control is all too typical for him."

"Jus' drank too much," Drift said, scrubbing a hand over his face, pausing with it covering his mouth. "Hadn't had any in a long time. Guess my tolerance dropped."

"You guess. You guess." Dai Atlas rounded on the smaller mech, who cringed, holding the empty cube up like a shield.

"Hey, now," Barricade said from the doorway, stepping closer. He didn't like this kind of slag. "Mech's sorry enough. And like he said, it was a mistake. All he did was drink too much. Not a capital crime or nothin'." He didn't care if the blue jet yelled at him. He could take it. And right now the little white mech looked like he could use the help. Barricade didn't have much in the way of morals, but 'picking on the little guy' was a nonstarter in his book.

"And you are…?" Haughtiness behind the words, tinged with disdain. And even Blackout realized the tone was a big mistake to use against Barricade.

"Someone you should be glad you don't know," Barricade said, folding his arms over his chassis. "How's Star Saber, by the way?"

The lip curled into a sneer. "I am glad I don't know you or your kind." He turned back to Drift. "And you. In a house of ill-repute like this. What were you thinking?"

"Just wanted to have some fun," Drift said. "Meet the Elite Guard, you know. Make friends."

"And I can see that that failed. Spectacularly."

"Know what?" Barricade said, idly examining his talons. "I think it's time for you to go, Das Frosty. You know, before you catch something or something." Blackout knew his cue when he heard one, stepping forward, looming over the blue jet.

"At least we agree on that," Dai Atlas said, archly. "Come, Drift. We'll discuss your shortcomings in the morning." A pause, as Drift struggled to his feet, still wobbly from the overcharge. "I expect it will be a rather…long session."

Drift slouched after Dai Atlas, as the other swept from the room, shooting one last, mortified look back at the two of them.

Blackout shook his head as the door whirred closed. "Don't like that. Poor little guy. Kinda feel bad for him."

"For now," Barricade said, philosophically. "Trust me, that kind of thing's going to blow up in Dai Atlas's face." A shrug. "Trust me," he repeated, his mouth quirking, enigmatic. "Kid'll be fine."


	54. Dai Atlas

Dai Atlas: Co-written by Antepathy and Optimus Bob :) hope you enjoy!

Dai Atlas frowned, even as he sank into the plush—decadent, he internally corrected—cushions. Sentinel was up to something. And it didn't take much to figure out what. His glower didn't manage to wither the beaming grin on Sentinel's face, doubtless a victorious smirk. "I question, utterly, your taste," Dai Atlas said.

"I like it," Sentinel said. "Classy décor. And besides, surely we've earned a little, you know, indulgence."

"I did not fight the war for the right to enrich brothels," Dai Atlas said, optics scouring the room of the bar. Repugnant mass of color and noise, crawling with vice.

"Hi! What can I get you?" A perky voice, matched by a perkier white and red frame. Dai Atlas saw the namebadge announce this one as 'Wing', and the gold optics of a Neutral. His mouth twitched.

"Rust crisps," Sentinel said, without looking at the menu, a smooth indication that he'd been here before, often. "And a Kolkular Sweet. Your finest vintage," he said, airily, waving one hand.

Wing nodded. "Excellent choice, sir." The gold optics turned to Dai Atlas.

His optics narrowed with disdain. He'd seen this kind a thousand times, during the war. Amoral, eternally cheerful. Most likely, he thought, on drugs. "A Metrotitan, iced, and stirred, gently." When the jet nodded, cheerful smile in place, he added, "I am quite particular about this drink."

A deeper nod, the smile shifting to a serious expression. "Our bartender is quite experienced, sir. I'm sure you will find it to your standards."

"I do not share your certainty," he said, frostily.

The smile perked a bit at the corners, a bit weaker, as though hammered a bit flat. "He shall definitely do his best."

[***]

Wing hoped he turned his back before the guests could see the furrow between his optics. Prowl had never messed up a drink order. He was Wing's favorite bartender to work with: fast, efficient, and meticulous, and more than that, kind. He had faith. But still, the stranger's attitude stung.

He tapped the order in to the kitchen, for the rust crisps, before heading to the bar. He handed over the drink order, hesitating.

"Something wrong?" Prowl looked over the order, moving smoothly to get the right glasses.

"No. It's silly."

Prowl's silence was its own question, and Wing murmured, unhappily, "The Metrotitan. The customer says he is very particular. I do not like why he has already decided to mistrust us."

Prowl glanced past Wing to pinpoint which particular customer Wing was referring to. "Dai Atlas…." He murmured lowly, his grip tightening slightly on the elegant glassware.

"You know him then?" Wing perked up, his smile returning.

Looking back to the other mech, Prowl gave a single shake of his helm. "Not personally, no." Then with the faintest of smiles for Wing; "I'm sure it wasn't personal. It is in the nature of those who don't understand things or people at first glance, to judge." Gathering up the ingredients for the two drinks, Prowl handed Wing the Kolkular vintage high grade with a reassuring nod. "You can make the Kolkular sweet with ease now. I'll make the Metrotitan. It happens to be a favourite of a good friend of mine."

Wing nodded and his smile widened as he watched Prowl get to work on the more complex concoction before getting busy with Sentinel's order. "Where do you know that Dai Atlas from?" he asked, carefully measuring the sweetening additive.

Prowl didn't immediately respond, his faceplates creased as he focused on the pouring of the effervescent drink. "It's all a matter of history." He replied after a few kliks. "And who writes it."

Wing tilted his head. "Is he a ninjabot like you too?" His curiosity for the mystery that was the ninja corps got the better of him. So much to learn and what he'd heard about the ninjas was intriguing. They seemed kind of like the Circle, another ancient tradition almost lost by the war.

Placing the finished chilled drink beside Sentinel's with a small twitch of his mouth in satisfaction, Prowl cast the customer a subtle sharp look at Wing's question, his expression unreadable before turning back to the bar, busying himself with mixing various other cocktails for their growing number of customers, his back to Wing as he replied softly. "He is nothing like me."

Wing hesitated, hands curling around the tray, trying to measure if he would be intruding if he asked further. Prowl was a private mech, and even this much seemed like an admission. But he decided not to press: it was honor enough Prowl revealed that much. He nodded to himself, murmuring a thanks, and headed back to the table.

Sentinel frowned, catching a flash of white in the corner of his optics. "I'm just trying to get you to see reason, Dai Atlas. The Guard needs the skills of the Dojo."

"Here you go!" Wing chirped, placing the beverages down on the table with an easy grace, and then a platter with an extra-large order of rust crisps fanned across it. "One glass of sweet Kolkular, a pre-war vintage, and one Metrotitan, perfectly chilled." Prowl had even compensated for the temperature change in the beverage between the bar and the table.

Dai Atlas frowned, squinting at the beverage, his nasal plating wrinkling. Yoketron's failed apprentice. What a base employment. Serving intoxicants to degenerates. Yoketron would be appalled. Then again, perhaps not. Yoketron always had been soft with his apprentices: a mistake Dai Atlas was certain he would not make with Drift. Drift knew how much he owed to Dai Atlas. A shame Prowl had forgotten.

"The color," he said, carefully, "is off."

Wing frowned, picking up the glass. "Yes, sir." The customer is always right. Unless Security gets involved. That's what Arcee had explained to him: customer is always right. "I shall tell him."  
He frowned, placing the drink on the counter. "He says it is the incorrect color."

The sharp visor appeared over the edge of the ninjabot's fin, his mouth twisted into an expression altogether ugly on his face. "Did he state what was wrong with the colour?" Prowl asked quietly, turning to face Wing on the other side of the counter.

Wing shook his helm and shrugged apologetically. "I didn't ask, I'm sorry."

Before Prowl could respond Arcee appeared from the back office, heading with a purpose to the bar. "Wing, darling… Chromia is otherwise engaged tonight," the moue on her face told her she was not pleased with this sudden absence, "would you be a dear and take the stage for me tonight?" She smiled, then turned to Prowl. "You're not too busy are you, Prowl?"

Wing looked between her and Prowl for a moment, hesitating. "I don –"

"—It's fine." Prowl interrupted curtly. "He was just finished serving."

Arcee gave Prowl a searching look, before smiling back at Wing. "Well you heard him; let's get you polished up. I want this pretty plating of yours to be sparkling."

Wing allowed himself to be led away by his employer, not before glancing back at Prowl contritely.

Prowl let them go without another word, his focus on the drink in front of him. There was no way, Dai Atlas hadn't seen him working and no way that the mech didn't recognise him. Prowl had heard the rumours of this Dai Atlas rebuilding a dojo. Not just any dojo. Yoketron's dojo, the place that had been his home for vorns. His dojo. The stories he'd heard surrounding this mech made him seem respectable enough but what Prowl had learned directly from Yoketron himself allowed him to see past the façade. Dai Atlas was a respected soldier and guardsmech. A war hero. A former student of Yoketron's but as far as Prowl was concerned he was no ninjabot. One needed honour and humility for that. Not to mention a respect for others.

Inhaling deeply, he picked up the drink and chilled it once more, this time for a few kliks longer, until the deep shade of blue faded to an icy azure. Flipping his rag onto the counter, Prowl headed over to the table where Dai and Sentinel were deep in some serious conversation.

Upon spying the familiar black and gold of Prowl's plating, Sentinel looked up quickly before dropping his gaze instantly to the table and swallowing a few large mouthfuls of his drink. He hadn't been able to look the ninjabot in the optic since that night he had inadvertently got himself high and fragged in a prank against Lockdown that had massively backfired.

"Your drink." Prowl stated, eyeing Dai Atlas coolly as he placed it in front of him, his optics never leaving the mech's face daring him to return it a second time.

Dai Atlas smirked and his optics looked the black and gold ninja up and down slowly, obviously, stopping on the slip of material tied around Prowl's slim waist. "My, how the favourites have fallen," he uttered as Prowl turned to leave.

Sentinel's optics flickered as Prowl turned back around and glared at Dai Atlas coldly. "Um, Dai Atlas, just accept the drink, alright. You can't expect quality from a space bridge repair 'bot." He snorted, avoiding Prowl's optics by raising his drink to his mouth.

"Mm, Yoketron would be disappointed." Dai Atlas continued smoothly, ignoring Sentinel beside him, his optics holding Prowl's glare blandly. "Then again, he did drag you out of the gutter, didn't he? Perhaps he would not be surprised as to where you've ended up."

Prowl appeared unfazed as he replied softly, "This coming from the mech Master Yoketron, I believe was quoted to refer to as 'one who is incapable of seeing past his own ego.'" His mouth curved upwards into the smallest of smiles. "You would know all about Master Yoketron's, disappointments now, wouldn't you, Dai Atlas?"

The larger mech stiffened before his face broke into an insincere smile and he took a long sip of his cocktail. "Mm, palatable. Well, at least you are not without some skill." He gave a wicked smirk, his optics flashing with challenge at the ninjabot. "Maybe you'd like to come and demonstrate them at the opening ceremony of my dojo this coming cycle? I'm sure Master Yoketron would be proud to see his former students reunited under the roof in which he taught them." Dai Atlas let his smile spread as his sharp optics picked up the faintest uncertain flicker of Prowl's striking visor and decided to twist the knife in the wound he'd so clearly just opened. "I'm sure they would be very complimentary of your… bartending prowess."

Gritting his dentae, Prowl balled his fists tightly. "You have no place in that dojo."

"Oh, I think you'll find I have pride of place in old Yoketron's dojo." Dai positively purred out the words, relishing the tension radiating from the Yoketron's final, failed student. "I at least completed all my training. Tell me, Prowl," he canted his helm to the side, feigning curiosity in the ninjabot. "Have you completed anything your whole life?"

Sentinel snorted in amusement. "Are you kidding? He can't even die properly." He put his drink down heavily, already having consumed half of it. "Not that I wanted it mind you," he added hastily, "but you know talk about doing something half-aft." He chuckled to himself, nudging Dai as though sharing his joke. "Tried it on for size twice and still didn't get it right." He laughed into his drink, not catching the interest brightening Dai's optics as he glanced back at Prowl.

"Is that so?" He smiled at Prowl, a smile devoid of warmth and sincerity, the sort Prowl had heard referred to on Earth as a crocodile's smile. "You'll have to tell me more about this, Sentinel. It can only serve to enrich my current knowledge on my fellow ninja."

"You know nothing about me." Prowl replied tersely, biting back his rising anger at Dai Atlas's arrogant audacity to lay claim on something he'd walked away from.

"I know everything Yoketron knew about you though," he called after the retreating black and gold mech, relishing the glare he received, he raised his glass up to Prowl in a sign of acknowledgement, as the slight mech vanished into the staff only area visibly irate. Dai Atlas was certain he hadn't seen or heard the last from Prowl. In fact, he sincerely hoped not.

For him the game had only just begun.


	55. Lesson

Lesson by: Antepathy and Optimus Bob.

Enjoy :)

"Sentinel, you can't be serious about this." Optimus stared at his fellow Prime in dismay.

The blue mech huffed and folded his arms obstinately. "And why not, Optimus? Have you seen what's going on out there lately?" He gestured wildly to the window overlooking Iacon before marching over to it and shaking his helm. "Energon prices have sky rocketed, petty theft of fuel has become a city-wide occurrence and those 'cons are up to something."

"You can't know that for sure." Optimus countered patiently. "You're making a presumption based on the past. That's not fair—"

Sentinel whirled around and jabbed an annoyed finger at the taller mech. "—I'll tell you what's not fair. Iaconians having to scrounge for what energon there is while those _criminals_ steal it from right under our chins."

Sentinel shot a glare at their 'guest' that if it could hurt, would have smited the Decepticon. Mightily. "He is a further example of how we've given the Decepticons too much freedom. They're taking our energon; they're running the arena every cycle at extensive cost to the state for security, fuel and not to mention medical care. Enough is enough, Optimus. We need to crack down on this criminality before it gets out of control."

"Your fraggin' ego that's out of control…" Barricade muttered sullenly, flexing his hands in the stasis cuffs.

"Cool it, mech." Jazz replied softly from behind him, a white hand gripping his shoulder, a warning. "SP's just blowing off some steam."

Barricade wasn't inclined to have Jazz's faith in the blue idiot who had well earned his Decepticon codename; Egomuch Prime . He did agree with one thing though, it was time for a change, a change in their favour for once. And then he felt dirty for even agreeing that much.

Marching back over to Optimus, Sentinel smirked at him. "Time we knew what they know."

"Sentinel, I understand your concerns but wire-tapping areas and places popular to Decepticons and Autobots alike is not the way. You're just going to end up alienating more people than you're trying to help. These are places where mechs and femmes feel comfortable regardless of faction. They don't want the elite guard spying on them."

Clicking in vague disinterested, Sentinel cycled air through his vents. "You're so naïve, Optimus but it doesn't matter the council have already agreed with me." His smug smirk spread across his face at Optimus's quiet outrage.

"You already went to the council without consulting me?"

"I had to, Optimus; this isn't your precious organic mud ball now. _Here_ we need results and vermin...," he shot a pointed look towards Barricade, who was doing his hardest to play stupid. Yeah, totally not taking notes on all of this. Nope. Not at all. Nothing Onslaught would want to know going on here. "...need to be put back in their place." He gave a sententious nod. At his own genius, apparently, Barricade figured. "We're setting up increased patrols and surveillance starting with the one they frequent most of all, the arena and Inamorato." Turning away from the momentarily stunned Optimus, Sentinel looked Barricade up and down. "You will be used as an example of what we do to criminals."

"I didn't do anything! I was minding my own business. Even your fraggin' lacky here knows better; he at least is just following protocol." Yeah, this sucked. To be facing the hoosegow when—for once—he hadn't even done anything!

"I can and I will. I think you're mistaking your value for someone of worth. Take him to the stockades, Jazz." Sentinel ordered with an airy wave of one hand, relishing the sound of Barricade's low growl.

"No."

Both Barricade and Sentinel froze at the quiet statement.

"Jazz, I gave you an order." Sentinel frowned.

"And I said no." The guardsmech stepped forward and met Sentinel's bright optics with a calm gaze. "This is wrong, mech and you know it. Penalising the Decepticons just for being Decepticons, it ain't right and it's not going to stop the problems that all of us are facing. This is something we need to work together on."

"I will never work with a 'con." He looked appalled that Jazz would even suggest such a thing.

"You might not. But whether you like it or not, it's happening. Factions don't mean as much when your planet is dying. We're all in this together."

"Urgh, you have been around _him_ too long." Sentinel scoffed, pointing at Optimus. "I gave you an order, Jazz. Follow it like the guardsmech you are or you can join him in the stockades."

Jazz smiled thinly, humourlessly and took a step forward towards Sentinel who in a mild moment of panic, unsure of Jazz's intentions, stepped back away from him. Jazz frowned slightly and shook his helm at the movement. "You too paranoid, SP. I've served with you for vorns, you know I'm loyal and you know I want what's best for Cybertron but this… it's not right, you know it, deep down, I know you know it." Shaking his helm at the Prime, Jazz turned around and walked straight over to Barricade and unlocked his stasis cuffs. "Stay out of trouble." He gave Barricade a small nod before glancing back to Sentinel.

Yeah, right. Barricade lived in trouble city. Still, he wasn't about to miss an opportunity for a tactical zoom.

"What are you doing!" Sentinel spluttered as Barricade's tires left black marks, screeching on his way out the door. "You are going to answer for this insubordination!"

"Sentinel, calm down, Jazz is right." Optimus jumped in, placing a soothing hand on the blustering mech's arm.

"NO, I WILL NOT CALM DOWN! Why am I the only one who can see what's going on around here?" Sentinel was appalled. Then again, this was why he deserved to be Magnus, and no one else. This kind of foresight, and this kind of confidence. Sentinel glared at Jazz who stood facing him calmly, unfazed. "You! What do you have to say for yourself?"

"Until you realise what you're doing is wrong, SP… this isn't an Elite Guard I want to be part of. I think it's time I took some leave that's owed to me."

"Jazz…" Optimus started softly, surprised by the ninja's words.

"I'm sorry, OP. About time somebody took a stand against tyranny. I didn't fight two wars to give the planet over to yet more tyranny and segregation. Things are changing whether the council like it or not. Whether you, Sentinel, like it or not. I'll be seein' you." Giving them both a respectful bow, the kind that came straight from his cyberninja training, Jazz turned and headed for the exit.

"IF YOU STEP OUT OF THAT DOOR. THERE'LL BE NO COMING BACK FOR YOU; YOU'LL BE A TRAITOR JUST LIKE ANYONE WHO FOLLOWS YOU!" Sentinel roared.

Keeping his gaze focused forward, Jazz gave a minute shake of his helm, stepped out of the room and kept on walking. Sentinel's voice chasing him down the corridor.

"YOU'RE FINISHED, YOU HEAR ME? FINISHED!"

oOoOoOo

"Really."

Sometimes Barricade wished Onslaught had, you know, like a real face. Most of the time he wished that so he could punch it. The other times, he just wanted to be able to read the mech's expression. Today? Kinda both.

"Whatever. I wasn't doing anything. Honest."

"You and honesty are hardly on intimate terms, Barricade."

Shut up, Barricade thought. "I'm hurt that you don't trust me."

"I can tell." Onslaught paused, bending over his datapad. "Wiretapping." He thumbed a button on his console, and Barricade saw the upside down image of Vortex's face. "Call in General Strika. She needs to know this."

Barricade couldn't help the smirk. Damn straight. "SO, yeah, my work here is done. And frankly, going for a cruise and coming back with some valuable intel? I think I've earned a few days off."

A snort. "Maybe. After you finish a sweep for bugs in Inamorato."

Barricade grumbled. "No good deed goes unpunished."

"Please, Barricade. Like you won't use that to your advantage."

oOoOoOoo

Prowl had escaped from Inamorato the following cycle, still livid from the previous cycle's encounter. Even Lockdown had given him a wide berth during his shift given his obvious foul mood and Arcee had allowed him to finish early. That mech, that Dai Atlas. The audacity of him to lay claim on something that meant so much to him, to many of the remaining cyber ninjas, it disgusted him. He accelerated through the streets towards the location of Yoketron's dojo, or what had been left of it. Slowing as he approached, Prowl transformed and seethed at the media frenzy the place had become.

The building itself was extravagant compared to Yoketron's standards and the security surrounding the newly re-built dojo was appalling. It wasn't a place of imprisonment, those that trained there should feel at home, free to come and go as they pleased. The life of the Cyber ninja was supposed to be a choice. He stared at the throngs of people who'd turned up for Dai Atlas's opening ceremony, it was disgusting. Prowl knew just looking at who had shown up that they weren't here to celebrate and honour Yoketron's legacy. This was all for publicity a show of dominance, Dai Atlas standing separate from the council, from the Elite Guard.

Walking up to the rear fence surrounding the building, Prowl scaled it easily, clearly Dai hadn't accounted for ninja wanting to break in. Not that they should have to. Slipping through the shadows, Prowl watched as the mech himself greeted his guests with all the pomp and splendour that Yoketron had once shunned. _'A mech's ego can be a weapon, Prowl and it can be a strength. Those that wield it in front of others to flaunt their prowess, are unlikely to have an inner strength that gives them the confidence to face all the hardships they will encounter throughout their journey along the Cyber ninja path. Too much ego will inevitably lead to destruction and sorrow.' _Hearing Yoketron's long ago spoken words in his processor, Prowl pulled a face at the extravagance of this ceremony. This was exactly what Yoketron had been talking about. Spotting Jazz's familiar white frame among the crowd, Prowl weaved his way through the crowds.

Dai Atlas gave a satisfied nod at the turnout, inwardly preening with pride at the popularity of his new dojo and not just any dojo either. Yoketron was a legend on Cybertron and his dojo had become a place of reverence and spiritual pilgrimage. Which was one thing, but that was the past and this...was the future.

No more. Now it had been returned back to what it had always intended to be. A place of training, discipline and strength and honor, methods and discipline above what the 'ninjas' practiced. Gone were the old ways, the soft ways. No more spirituality. Learning to fight was a primal need, one which Dai Atlas intended to hone and mould under his guidance and direction. Drift would be his first student – much to the mech's reluctance at times – and he would be a formidable knight once Dai Atlas was done with him. And if he could produce gold out of such slag as that wastrel, he could work miracles.

Scanning over the crowds of people milling about the dojo hall, Dai Atlas spotted Jazz, a mech he very much wanted to speak to. Jazz was respected by many in and out of the guard and he was one of the most skilled Cyber ninja that had ever come out of Yoketron's dojo. Dai Atlas wanted his backing, wanted to pull him from the misdirection of the elite guard. Confident in his abilities of persuasion, he sauntered over, faltering only minutely when he spied another familiar figure talking intently with the white and black ninja. Prowl. A smirk pulled at his lip components. He'd planted the seed and the mech had bitten. Dai Atlas had to admit to some small amount of surprise. Straightening, tall and proud as he approached he smiled at them both. "Jazz…," he said, pleasantly, letting his voice sour as he turned to the black and gold mech. "Prowl. I admit I am surprised you decided to return here."

"You know what they say about having expectations." Prowl replied curtly.

Jazz looked between the two as the obvious tension that surrounded them began to thicken. "Nice work you've done on the framework of the building, Dai… little flamboyant for my tastes but good structure beneath it all the same." He complimented quietly, hoping to detract the two mechs from glaring at each other.

Dai Atlas's wings flicked. He hated truncations of his name. Disrespectful. Perhaps Jazz was not the best ally for his aims. "Thank you, Jazz. Your praise is appreciated. I was hoping to speak with you about my offer." A slight emphasis on 'was'.

"Offer?" Prowl looked at Jazz in confusion.

Giving the tall mech a slight shrug, Jazz replied contritely. "I'm sorry, I haven't checked my messages recently. Bit of an upheaval going on with the Guard right now."

Discipline, utterly lacking. Dai Atlas straightened, looking over to where Drift stood, rigid, by the fountain, just as ordered. "I understand, of course." He hated this diplomatic game: had despised it during the war, in the army. It was part of why he had resigned his commission—in peacetime, everything redounded to these false pleasantries. "Comm me when you've had chance to go over my proposal and we'll discuss." Turning to Prowl, Dai Atlas's bland diplomatic smile edged to a smirk. "What do you think, Prowl. It is magnificent is it not?"

"It's not about magnificence, Dai Atlas. If you remembered anything about your time here you would know that."

Dai Atlas ducked his gaze with a low chuckle and stepped closer to the smaller ninja. "I see how it is. You do not think it is my place to claim Yoketron's dojo?"

"I do not." Prowl answered meeting his gaze, glaring until the mirth faded from Dai Atlas's face.

"And Prowl, pray tell, what gives you the right to think you have any say in who gets to claim this place? A place – need I remind you – that you ran away from when your master was dying on its floor." So much in that story, so much dereliction, dishonor. It was disgusting that Prowl dared show his face around here.

"You will not speak of him!"Prowl spat, lunging forward ready to strike, his shuriken already in hand, when he felt Jazz's hand close around his slender wrist.

"I think that's out of line, mech." Jazz interrupted, stepping between the two mechs, his visor steady, his voice calm with an undercurrent of warning.

"Of course." Of course it was out of line. No discipline, no honor. None at all. He would show them with Drift. Dai Atlas pulled back, smiling widely, false sincerity oozing from every part of him. "How rude of me. It is undoubtedly a sensitive topic for you, Prowl. You were after all the only one not to complete his training. That must sit heavy with you."

Jazz growled lowly in warning and took an advancing step towards the overly confident mech who was starting to grate on the last of his patience. "I said that's enough."

Holding up his hands in surrender, Dai Atlas bowed his helm slightly the smirk still tugging at the corner of his mouth. "My apologies. I should have figured that his lack of self-control would require you to step in for him." He tipped his chin to indicate Drift. "Let me introduce you to the new dojo's first student."

Drift stood silently, sullenly, not enjoying being paraded about like some sort of trophy pet, while Dai Atlas's guests—former Autobots, the Elite Guard, civilians, swarmed over the dojo. He masked his dismay as they bumped against the flowers he'd arranged just so, knocked askew the tower of stones Dai Atlas had had him erect. All would be blamed on him. He was already exhausted from the preparations for today: he saw a long night ahead putting the place to rights.

"Drift."

Drift stiffened, hearing Dai Atlas's voice. "Master."

"Demonstrate."

An almost imperceptible twitch of his face, something like shame burning his face plates, at the tone. Ordered, like a dog, a thing to perform. He bowed, the movement tense and rigid, drawing his twin blades, sinking into a crouch.

"First form," Dai Atlas said.

A brief nod, and Drift moved, shifting his awareness inward, feeling his center of gravity shift, the blades swing in his hands, movement fluid and slow. He could feel dozens of pairs of optics on him, studying the motion—not him—the angle of the blades, the smoothness of the sweep, the tilt of his helm. He ignored those, as he had been taught, focusing on the movement, on the complicated chain of swing and backswing, step and turn.

He found some kind of peace here, in these movements, in these forms, that he could summon up, like a strength.

He finished the series, coming to rest exactly where he had started, optics dropping as he brought his rear leg forward, foot placed precisely beside the other as he sheathed the blades. He looked up. Drift knew by now not to hope for Dai Atlas's approval. Just...not censure. Not in public, anyway.

A nod, a grunt. Nothing more. And when the others moved, it was to congratulate Dai Atlas on his work, on his skill and patience. As though Drift...wasn't there.

"Yoketron could not do so much with such...unpromising materials," Dai Atlas commented, more to Jazz than to Prowl who was now nothing more than an irritating presence in the background to him. "He will learn that the old ways were weak and that in times like these strength and honour is essential. These are the values I will teach in my dojo."

Fists balled tightly by his side, Prowl had heard enough. "I challenge your right to claim this dojo."

All optics turned to stare at him, Jazz tilted his helm in concern. "Prowl, what are you doing?"

"What did it sound like I was doing?"

"It sounds like you're starting a fight, mech… which isn't the best idea you've ever had."

Giving Jazz a pointed look, Prowl looked back to Dai Atlas and squared up to him. "I challenge your right to claim this dojo, to Master Yoketron's dojo which should belong to his previous students. All of them and should continue to follow his teachings of the cyberninja path which you consider so weak."

"What gives you the right to challenge me?" Dai Atlas drawled in vague amusement.

Drift, beside him, shifted uncomfortably, hands clutching his sword hilts.

"As per the cyber ninja code laid down by Master Yoketron's predecessors only the final student of a master can lay claim to his master's dojo in the event of his passing to the All Spark." Prowl stepped up a subtle humourless smirk curling his small mouth. "And as you repeatedly pointed out, I think you'll find that's me."

Drift hesitated, rocking forward on his feet. He liked Prowl, what he remembered of him. As much as Dai Atlas allowed him to like anyone. But Dai Atlas had drilled into him, incessantly, honor and loyalty.

He stepped between them, feeling Dai Atlas's outrage like a red wash over him, Prowl's conviction tangling with it. It felt like stepping into a maelstrom.

"If anyone is to fight, I will," he said. He felt a flutter of something against his spark. Dai Atlas always told him he'd know what courage felt like when he actually encountered it. This must be courage. It felt...kind of queasy.

"No," Dai Atlas and Prowl said, almost simultaneously, then backed off to glower at each other for the other's audacity at stealing the word.

"My fight is not with you," Prowl said, mastering himself.

Dai Atlas bridled, his optics never leaving Prowl's face. "Do you think I would trust the fate of the dojo on one who's training is incomplete?"

"I—" The words stung, even though he could see the logic.

"Stand down, Drift," Dai Atlas barked.

"C'mon, mech," Jazz said, hooking Drift by the arm, tugging him back. "Ain't nothin' you can do here. When two mechs are set on butting heads, worst thing you can do is get between 'em."

Prowl gave a minute nod of thanks to Jazz, as he led the young swordsmech aside.

"Very well," Dai Atlas said, tearing his gaze away to scan over the still-watching crowd. "Since you insist on ruining my celebration with your petty tantrum, I will be glad to indulge you."

Nodding, Prowl stepped onto the padded sparring mats, the action filling his processor with flashbacks of a time long gone, back to the first cycle he'd stepped onto the very same mats.

Flashback

"_You believe you're prepared then, Prowl?" Yoketron watched the young mech calmly as he stepped cockily onto the mats. _

"_I think I've had enough practise doing kata, I'm not learning anything." The black and gold mech replied haughtily coming to a stop opposite Yoketron. "You said you would teach me."_

"_What is it you think you're going to learn here?" _

"_How to fight, defend myself, become a ninja. I'm done sweeping the floors." Prowl folded his arms defiantly, determined not to move. "Although I should warn you, I've survived long enough on my own in the city to know a thing or two about defending myself." _

_Yoketron didn't bother to suppress the small smile taking over his face plates and he bowed to his student and stood back in ready stance. "Is that so? Well then, by all means," He spun the Bo staff and pointed it at Prowl before swinging it to the side opening up his posture. "Show me what you know, Prowl." _

"_Well first of all that wouldn't get you very far on the streets." Prowl scoffed instantly._

_Tilting his helm curiously, Yoketron looked at Prowl with a small smile. "Oh?"_

"_Bowing will get you attacked as soon as you look away from your opponent." He stated smugly._

_Yoketron's optics glinted with a hint of mischief and he bowed once more before his student, optics flicking up to him. "Show me."_

End Flashback

Standing opposite Dai Atlas, Prowl faced the taller mech and gave a formal bow, his visor half dimming respectably as he had always been taught yet remaining trained on Dai Atlas's position.

Dai Atlas smirked slightly and gave a flourished bow, half straightening before whipping out his sword and in one smooth movement, he lunged forward and hooked the blunt side of his weapon around the back of Prowl's forward leg forcing him off balance, swapping the sword to the other hand and spinning quickly before Prowl could regain his footing he brought the butt of his weapon down onto the back of Prowl's helm with a satisfying crack.

Intakes choking at the sudden hard blow, Prowl fell straight to the floor his hands straining under his own weight as his chest slammed into the mats. The audience of Cyberninjas watching the match erupted into chaos at the flagrant disregard Dai Atlas had of the proper respect and honour required of all Cyberninja. A bow was a mark of mutual respect and acknowledgement; in a match such as this one it was highly improper to attack an opponent while he was bowing.

Dai Atlas smirked. It wasn't so much disregard as beating the ninja at his own game. Everyone knew that 'honor' was merely a byword to ninjas: spies, infiltrators, the lot of them. Sneaks. He wanted to set straight that he was not going to be fooled by any of those dirty tactics.

Ignoring the discontent of their audience, Dai Atlas circled Prowl predatorily, sword spinning in his hand with even strokes and expert control. "On the floor so soon, Prowl." He drawled, the hint of challenge rising in his voice. "Better get used to the view."

Growling softly, Prowl was on his feet and sending a flurry of fast attacks at Dai who initially struggled to block the smaller bladed weapons. Lunging forward he swiped at Prowl's chest only for the ninja to catch his sword with both shuriken and spin the weapon out of his grasp sending it clattering to the floor dramatically.

Dai Atlas glanced at the pair of shuriken as Prowl tucked them away and stepped back into ready stance waiting for Dai to make the next move. Dai Atlas was no stranger to hand to hand combat and smirked as he threw strike after strike onto the smaller mech who, much to Dai Atlas's frustration, managed to block each heavy blow despite his smaller size. Snarling as he gained no advantage over the quick moving ninja, Dai went for an underhanded approach. Dummying a strike he allowed Prowl to move in for the counter attack and feigned pain as the punch made solid contact with his midriff. Prowl took the opportunity and swept his leg behind Dai Atlas's and dropped the large mech onto his back.

Beside the mat, Drift twitched, hands jumping to his blades. Jazz held him back with one arm. Drift subsided, his face torn with emotion.

Using the small deception of injury to his own advantage, Dai Atlas waited for Prowl to come closer to finish the match and when he was close enough to Dai Atlas: without warning pushed up his larger bulk of a frame and pushed himself up into a sidekick colliding with the ninja squarely in the chest, splintering the glass of his windscreen as the ninja flew back onto the mats with a dull thud.

Gritting his denta, Prowl was back on his feet in an instant. If Dai Atlas wanted to play dirty then he'd give him exactly what he was looking for. Whipping out his shuriken, he went in for the attack. Being smaller and more agile than Dai Atlas, Prowl easily slipped behind him and swiped the blade of his shuriken across the mech's back plates making sure the wound wasn't deep enough to cause anything more than superficial damage.

Arching forward, Dai Atlas hissed in pain and growled lowly stumbling forward deliberately to reach his sword lying on the mats. Crouching low and spinning quickly, spurred on by Prowl's aggressive attack, he swung his sword towards Prowl's helm, at the same time his free hand went for his secondary smaller sword, his sharp optics following the ninja as he ducked and rolled predictably out of the way straight into the path of Dai's other sword as the blade came to a stop against Prowl's throat, forcing the ninja back onto his aft.

Jazz forced himself rigid, outraged at Dai Atlas's tactics. It was only the awareness that the young swordsmech stood right beside him that calmed him down, but he couldn't stop the frustrated growl from escaping his vocalizer.

Flashback

_Prowl smirked Yoketron left himself open and launched himself at the older mech aiming straight for his helm. Yoketron was ready for him and just as Prowl raised his arm for the strike, Yoketron dropped to the floor and Prowl carried by his own speed and lack of control barrelled into his frame and tumbled to the floor in an undignified heap his optics brightening as the business end of a Bo staff rapidly approached his helm stopping a mere breath from his face plates. _

"_If you always step onto these mats believing that your opponent can teach you nothing, you will always be defeated." Yoketron chastised gently, before straightening and offering his hand to the now sullen student. _

"_It was a dirty move." Prowl responded in protest, mouth pinched at the sting of defeat. "You tricked me."_

"_I did nothing of the sort. You have to be mindful of your surroundings, Prowl. You were too busy being controlled by your ego and what you weren't learning to pay attention to what I was trying to teach you. There is not always shame in defeat but there is always something new to learn." Yoketron stated serenely, standing to face Prowl once more stopping the black and gold mech from marching stubbornly off the mats. "If you fight with your ego and your pride, you will always lose." Bowing to Prowl once more, Yoketron readied himself and gave his scowling student a sharp command. "Again." _

End Flashback

Straightening slowly, pressing the sharp edge of both swords to either side of Prowl's throat, pinning the ninja to the floor, Dai smirked down at him once more. "You disappoint, Prowl, here I was thinking you were going to put up something of a challenge."

Leaning over the downed ninja Dai lowered his voice just for Prowl, his optics meeting Prowl's visor, bright with mortification at his defeat. "Your arrogance got the better of you, maybe now you'll remember your place," he drawled.

Straightening he looked around at the faces of the audience whispering among themselves in quiet awe and surprise and raised his voice for all to hear him. "As you can all see by Prowl's demonstration, the ways of the Cyberninja are limited, old fashioned, out dated. It is time for a change." Stepping away from the defeated ninja, Dai Atlas gave Prowl an exaggerated bow as he got to his feet before giving him a hard, cold glare. "You're a disgrace to the Cyberninja core. Relinquish your claim and leave this dojo for the second and final time, Prowl." Dai Atlas commanded loudly, making sure everybody could hear him.

Not looking at anyone other than Dai Atlas as he picked himself up off the floor slowly, Prowl felt the heat of embarrassment and shame in his pitiful defeat burning through him. He hadn't been prepared for Dai's methods of fighting, Jazz had tried to warn him but he had done exactly what he'd done all those vorns ago in front of his former Master. He'd fought with pride, ego, not for any of the Cyberninjas watching and not even for the memory of Master Yoketron. In his spark, Prowl knew he'd been fighting for himself and just as Yoketron had predicted; he had lost. Had he learned nothing after all this time? Dai Atlas was right, he had no place in Yoketron's dojo, no right to call himself a Cyberninja. Dai Atlas had made his point and driven it home with all of the ruthless brute force he was renowned for.

Stepping back, his processor swimming with reeling emotions and thoughts rushing through him, Prowl didn't even bow to the taller mech as he turned and marched off the mats. Jazz tried to reach him through the crowds but Prowl was not ready to face him yet. Keeping his helm down he avoided the watchful gazes of optics that followed him as they parted before him, letting him pass. After all this time running, searching, dying for a chance to redeem the disappointments of his past, he'd ended up right back where he started with Yoketron's wise words echoing in his processor.

"_Too much ego will inevitably lead to destruction and sorrow. If you fight with your ego and your pride, you will always lose."_


	56. Sloe Fizz

A/N: Toyz here, substituting for antepathy since she's been having technical difficulties with FFnet, hence her absence. But alas, no glitchy forces in the world will keep us from posting updates, so here, have a sweet little subplotty chapter! Drift and Wing have been imported from the IDW-verse to bring a lovely little romance into the Inamorato, full of awkwardness and intensity and everything else that makes up a timeless love story. Plus she adores this pairing LIKE WHOA, and because she writes them so beautifully, I now adore this pairing LIKE WHOA. Enjoy!

**Sloe Fizz** _by antepathy_

"Here you go!" The perky voice, almost chirpy, pierced through Kup's reverie, as he watched the white jet, some new server, put the fizzy green cylinder of Kup's fifth Sandokan Sloe Fizz in front of him, and then, with a flourish, a plate of fried rust crisps.

"I didn't order these." Kup had been drunker—way drunker—and even three solarsails to the wind he hadn't ever ordered food and forgotten about it.

"On the house," the jet said. He leaned over, nudging the plate closer. Kup saw a name-magnet on the other's chassis, proclaiming him 'Wing', with little glittery cartoon wings around the name. "You need something in your tanks or you're going to be feeling it tomorrow." A slight dimming of the high-voltage smile, before flickering brighter again. "Besides, they're really good!"

Feeling it in the morning was kind of the whole point, Kup thought, to have something big and painful and putting a heavy load on his processor queue; something to feel other than guilt, something he deserved, something else he could blame himself for.

"That's great," Kup said, blandly. "Don't worry about me. I'm just fine."

The blazing smile Kup was beginning to think could be used as a weapon, like a laser flashed in the optics. "Then you can be fine _and _eating a delicious snack." The jet lowered his serving tray, waiting.

"You're not going to leave until I do."

"Nope." A bright flicker of the optics, almost amused at having been figured out.

Kup grunted. Figured. "Losin' your tip for this," he muttered, snatching one of the crisps off the plate.

Wing shrugged. "All right."

"What? You don't like money? Independently wealthy or something?" Maybe the jet was some kind of playboy, slumming here. Who knew what entertained that lot? He bit into the chip with suitable ill grace.

Another shrug. "I care about money, but I care about mechs more. And you seem…in pain, friend."

Kup's mouth stopped, mid-chew. "…friend." I ain't your friend, he thought, but the words never made it to his vocalizer, blocked by a sudden lump of emotion.

"Yes," Wing said, and after a hesitation, dropped into the booth next to him. "What troubles you?"

Kup found himself crunching another chip, studying the white jet. Everyone had an angle: he couldn't figure this one's. But all that high grade had disconnected the cortex-vocalizer filter. "Kid I know," he heard himself say. "Knew." Did he really know Rodimus anymore? That was the whole problem.

"What happened to him?" Wing prompted.

"Cosmic rust." A twitch of the mouth that Kup buried in a deep drink of his Sandokan Sloe Fizz. "At least, that's the start."

Wing winced sympathetically. "I'm sorry."

What you got to be sorry about? Kup thought, but once again, the words didn't come. It was like the jet had some sort of forcefield that blunted pointed remarks. "Yeah." An old-timer's attempt to pull all of his experience, all he's witnessed, around him as some bulwark against the pain of the present. As though a long and storied past made one above hurting. "He got better. Physically."

A soft sound, almost a whimper. "But he has changed."

"Yeah." The word stuck in his pressed on. "Or maybe I didn't know him as well as I thought I did." He'd thought of Hot Rod as, well, a protégé. A friend. A kid with promise.

"Trauma changes a mech. If he appears different to you, it may be the same for himself."

Kup's veteran's shrug came a bit easier this time. "Maybe." It hurt to think of the change in Rodimus: the violent temper, the sullen, implacable hatred of their former enemies. Kup struggled with peace, with the idea that 'Cons were now forgiven, pardoned, as if they'd never been enemies, but Rodimus lashed out. A 'Con symbol was enough to send him into rages at times. Kup had heard of beatings, assaults. Worse.

But he couldn't really blame the mech. He supposed he'd hold a grudge, too: a bright future snuffed by Oil Slick and that one vial. Even in the hospital when Kup had visited the kid, he'd seemed more upset he'd let down his team than anything. So it hadn't started then, in the moment. That was the Rodimus Kup wanted to know, wanted to believe was still in there. The one it was getting harder and harder to see.

"Does he know your thoughts?" Wing reached over, taking a chip before nudging the plate back toward Kup. Just like they were friends. Just like they had this kind of spark-to-spark all the time.

"No." He found himself taking another chip. "Don't know how to say anything without setting him off." Give Kup a gun and he was fine. Give him a raw recruit and he could manage. Give him a terrified soldier facing his first combat, and the words just flowed. But this? No, because the stakes were personal.

"But saying nothing…."

"Yeah. Not working." He felt like he was watching Rodimus slowly die in front of him. Not the body this time, but something more important. And saying nothing was almost like saying it was okay.

"Tell him." The gold optics glinted with confidence. "Tell him this: that you fear alienating him, but that you say unpleasant things because you care, and that it hurts to see him hurting."

Part of Kup wanted to laugh. A stranger, who had drawn cheery little cartoon wings on his name badge, was giving advice that seemed to strike through his very spark. "Too easy."

"I assure you, it's not as easy to do as it may sound. But he will know you care, and sometimes...that is everything."

Kup reached for a cy-gar. Nah, no way. Cheap advice. It was some romantic streak in him, some overblown optimism that made him even consider it. He chomped the cy-gar, jerking his chin at the bar. "Ain't you got a job to do?"

Wing nodded, and rose to his feet, as though he'd been waiting for just that cue. "My break's almost over," he explained. "I hope you find peace, you and your friend."

And just like that, the jet bounced off, back to the bar, stopping to take a refill order from a crowded booth of 'Cons, the same perky smile on his face, leaving Kup alone with echoing words and a Sloe Fizz he suddenly wasn't sure he wanted.

[***]

"I saw you met Wing," Arcee glanced over his shoulder as she pulled up his tab from the central computer.

"Yeah." Kup grunted. "Cute kid."

"A Neutral," Arcee said.

"What's his deal?"

"He's some kind of monk, or trying to be. Working here is part of his vows." She held out a chit reader.

"Not really a monk place, here." Kup slotted his credit chit through the reader.

"Something about knowing the world before he renounces it?" Arcee gave a curious, sad sort of smile. She'd lost her memories of the whole war—in a way, she'd lost knowing the world. She could forget, and Kup had been envying that.

Had been.

"Yeah." Kup shifted the cy-gar from one side of his mouth to the other, pulling a fifty shanix piece from his storage. "Here. Give him this. Tip. Or something." He dropped his gaze, almost embarrassed at himself.

Arcee's smile grew bemused. "I swear he makes more tips this way…."

But Kup didn't hear. He'd turned away. /Hey. Rodimus? Gotta minute?/


	57. Winds of Change

A/N: So much turmoil Prowl is facing, and yet where is Lockdown? Drowning his troubles at a dive bar. Typical old scoundrel.

* * *

**Winds of Change** _by Toyz_

The B&V was Lockdown's second favorite watering hole since Cybertron crashed head-on into its peace treaty. Inamorato was his first only because of a certain ninja, but he didn't cotton to its gaudy decor and new age music, plus most of the staff members and regular patrons regularly got on his nerves. He favored the operation Blaster and Vibes were running because it stank of Cybertron's old ways before the war: before the faction split was backed by eons of grudges, before the label of neutral carried negative, unpatriotic connotations, and particularly before the energon crises prompted bar owners to serve watered down grog. B&V didn't water nothing down and Lockdown felt most at home in this little old fashioned dive, as did many other lone wolfbots such as himself.

As if on cue, the infamous Decepticon arms dealer burst through the front door, optics lit with an opportunistic hunger. He swaggered up to Lockdown's table, his chassis glimmering and reeking of the latest trendy wax, a brand the hunter particularly despised because it came from the bowels Oil Slick's now vacant laboratory. Lockdown crinkled his nasal plating at the sight and smell.

"Well, well, well, ya old rapscallion, why the change of scenery?" Swindle slid easily into the booth, face plates spread with the closest thing he had to a genuine smile. "Thought you took a bouncing gig over at the Plush Palace. Madam General get sick of your ugly mug around her joint or something? "

"Quit." Lockdown replied flatly, still debating whether or not he wanted this greaseball's company. "Not my scene. And I got sick of hers."

Swindle laughed, slapping the table. "Boy oh boy would Lugnut erupt if he heard you say that. Say, aren't those two getting hitched soon?"

Lockdown shifted from his comfortable slouch, impatiently throwing back the remainder of the congealed sludge at the bottom of his nursed drink. "Yeah. They just threw a party to celebrate. Oh, it was delightful." Sarcasm seeped steadily into his tone. "There were balloons and streamers, and pink bubbly energon toasts. We all had a grand old time...drinking, laughing, dancing..." Swindle's smiled dropped and he raised an optic ridge. Lockdown slammed his glass down, abruptly downshifting his feigned mirth and unintentionally capturing the bar owner's attention. "Do I look like I wanna talk fluff?"

"Whoa, whoa, take it easy ya grumpy old oil-leaker." The dealer snapped to get the waitress's attention. "Have another drink for spark's sake."

"Is it on you?"

"Spark no. Not unless you plan on," Swindle leaned back and cast a quick glance downward, "offering up your services."

"Gross." Lockdown shuddered, averting his optics. "Too greasy."

Swindle's retort was cut off when Vibes strolled up, red hips swaying like an off-rhythm pendulum, drink tray tilted carelessly on her fingertips. The Autobot was much more pleasant to look at than Swindle's crotch.

"We be get one ting straight, ya ill-mannered bandulus." The old veteran's tone promptly captured both mechs' undivided attention. "Imma not at no mechs beck n'call. I come not to snaps or da bangarang of cups, to whistles or horns blowin', to 'hey darlins' or 'yo sweetsparks'. Imma come to you when I come to you and him dat don't like can jam on obeh to dem Iacon shanties."

Swindle shuttered his optics, unsure what to make of the sitation but proceeding as though the femme hadn't spoken a syllable. "I would like to order a-"

"No." Vibes barked, turning and moving on to the next booth, where she happily took the patrons' orders. Lockdown shook his head at Swindle.

"I thought this place was old fashioned," Swindle griped. "Like in the days when femmes-"

"Just stop." Lockdown blurted. "Before ya sentence us to death by thirst." Primus forbid he have to get up and manually order his second round from Blaster.

"Whatever." The dealer shrugged it off, unfazed. "How've you been keeping busy lately if you quit your bouncing job?"

"Hunting."

"Duh." Swindle made a face. "Hunting what? Where's your market? Not more Starscream clones I hope."

"No." Hunting clones never panned out well for the bounty hunter.

"Then who? You're not..." A mocking smile skewed the dealer's face plates. "You're not still hunting Oil Slick are ya?"

Swindle's words grated on Lockdown. He avoided the question, averting his gaze to anywhere but the dealer who was now laughing heartily, purple windshields bouncing up and down.

"Wowie, my friend. You are truly pathetic." Swindle wiped a bead of energon from his optic. "What on Cybertron do you think that's going to get you?"

"Revenge."

"Wrong! All it's getting you is a mob of miffed 'cons with their panels in a pinch. Oil Slick is one of Strika's top goons and I know Megatron values his contributions to chemical weapons."

"I don't give a flying turbofox's aft what the 'cons think about it."

"Well you should. Megatron's the best client you got on Cybertron. There's no work for you in Iacon, not with that new femme hunter rounding up all the defecting Autobots. What's her name..."

"Road Rage." Lockdown grumbled bitterly. "And don't remind me."

"You need to get your priorities straight, my friend. Megatron is the last bot you want to make enemies with these solars. I've been doing everything in my ability to get back in his good graces."

"Of course ya have." Vibes returned, sporting a more pleasant demeanor than before. "Dat is why you sell Nebulon firearms to Autobots. And by da way, when can I be expectin' my delivery?"

Lockdown smiled, the mental image of Vibes's impressive firearm collection the perfect distraction from Swindle's lecturing.

"They're en route, Vibes darling." Swindle switched over to his most charming tone. "Running a little a behind schedule but on the way, I assure you. See, it's harder these days for Cybertronians, even honest businessbots such as myself, to export goods out of the Nebulon Republic. Cybertron's energon crisis is the hottest inter-planetary gossip right now, so it's got the Nebbies all paranoid to deal with us. They're cracking down at the borders and the paperwork involved in customs has increased exponentially."

"What does de energon crisis have to do wid mah guns?" Vibes crossed her arms, irritated. She hated politics almost as much as Lockdown did.

"Weapons are technology, sweetspark." Swindle continued, typically loving the sound of his own vocals. "And they protect their highly lucrative energy manufacturing tech more than they protect their young. Apparently a band of Nebby criminals smuggled some top secret energy refining prototypes out disguised as common weapons, using our transformation technology."

"Lemme guess, a Cybertronian gave 'em that tech?" Lockdown had heard rumors about this through the underground trading circuits, but he never knew the full details.

"Damn skippy they did, which is why I'm having such a tough time legitimately smuggling their perfectly harmless, old model weapons." Swindle was oblivious to everything wrong with that statement. "You know, Lockdown. I'll bet you the Nebulon military put a hefty bounty out for the Cybertronians who swiped their tech. You should look into that."

Terrific. More lecturing. "Why would I want to hinder Cybertron from gaining a solution to our energon crisis?"

"Lockdown. Buddy. Pull your head outta your tailpipe! Ya don't give the Nebbies their tech back until you've made a copy."

"Oh, right." The hunter cursed internally for his daftness, wondering where his processor was these solars.

"Where in the rings of Ellipsus is your processor these solars?" Of course Swindle had to rub it in. "Vibes, please, talk some sense into this sorry stack of twitterpated tinscraps.

Vibes promptly took a seat next to Swindle, scooting in to get comfortable and leaning in toward Lockdown with an eager grin. "Do fill me in. How was de reception? Did you dance wid'im?"

Swindle made an exasperated noise. "Oh for spark's sake."

Lockdown's felt his face plates flush with an embarrassing shade of energon pink. He ducked his head and shifted uncomfortably. "Yeah." He was defenseless against the oncoming smirk, but not too ashamed because he talking about Prowl irritated Swindle. "We danced."

"Aaaaand..." Vibes pried.

"And..." Nothing. Unfortunately. Kid's a tough nut to crack. "A gentlemech don't kiss and tell."

"In other words," Swindle butted in, "he struck out."

"Didn't strike out." Lockdown retaliated. "Just...playing it cool."

"What is yar game?" Vibes inquired, eyeballing the dealer's arm canon now propped on the seat back behind her.

"My...game?" Lockdown wasn't certain what she was asking. He hoped she wasn't assuming his game was anything like Swindle's sorry 'yawn and stretch' move being performed on her at the moment.

Vibes turned partially in the booth, unable to resist inspecting the dealer's top notch weaponry. Swindle, much to Lockdown's disgust, wallowed in the attention regardless of the body part it was being directed to. He tilted a smug smile toward Lockdown. "Keep up, old mech. She wants to know what angle you're playing. What's in it for you to keep pursuing this Autobot?"

"Not his angle." Vibes corrected, gliding her fingers down the glistening black alloy of Swindle's signature weapon. "Just..." She glanced up, her tone softening with a genuine concern, "what do ya want from de cycle bot? Him not one to be fragged and tagged."

"I know, Vibes." Lockdown shifted awkwardly, her words convicting. "I know. I...," he paused, considering his company for a cautious moment before continuing. "I want somethin'...I can't ever have."

"Which is...?" Vibes was relentless. But Lockdown was less and less seeing the harm in talking about things. It's not like his attraction to Prowl was a secret, and Yoketron did always say not to keep slag bottled up, not that Lockdown cared about his former sensei's advice.

"A hunting partner." Lockdown mumbled, fidgeting with hook. "A damned good one. Like I had that one time in Detroit."

"Why don't you ask him?" Vibes pressed, making it sound so simple.

"Already did."

"Snotty little cycle turned him down flat." Swindle chuckled, earning himself a sneer.

"Times have changed." Vibes stated optimistically, turning her full attention back on Lockdown. "Ask him again."

"No." Lockdown wouldn't subject himself to rejection a second time.

"Frag him." The dealer offered. "Literally, frag him. I know you. I know that's what you're ultimately after. Once you nail him, he'll be old news, yesterday's model. The grass, as the humans say, will be greener elsewhere and you can go back to being the respectable lowlife you used to be."

"Already fragged him." Lockdown's cortex filled with uninvited but warming images from the Death's Head engine room: the raw, uninhibited and almost unbelievable interlude he spent with the ninja. It took all his will to stay in the immediate conversation and not get lost in his memories. "Didn't work. Only made it worse."

"My oh my, are you a sad one." Swindle shook his head with genuine pity. "But I know what will perk you up. How about my latest upgrade catalog? Just got my new line of Vandarian holo-disguises in that I think you'll die for." He opened his subspace drawer and started digging around. "I know it's in here somewhere."

"You are not helping." Vibes barked, slamming the drawer shut, nearly crushing Swindle's hand. She turned back to Lockdown. "Just tell him how you feel."

Blaster's voice rang out across the bar just in time, beckoning to his missing co-owner. "Vibes! What's the haps, sista? I got a mess a'thirsty patrons jonesin' for your sweet service. Don't bring 'em down. Break it down instead. Like I know you can, mama. Ow!"

Vibes scooted out of the booth, placing her hand on Lockdown's arm before tending to her duties. "Tell him how you feel, brudda. Dat is da best ting you can do."

Lockdown grumbled, for multiple reasons, but mainly because he still never got to place his drink order.

Swindle very blatantly watched Vibes walk away. "Typical Autobot sentiment. Nice aft, though." Lockdown stole a quick glance. He couldn't help it.

"Here's what you need to do..." Swindle continued.

"Here we go." Lockdown rolled his optics, not knowing what to expect.

"Frag him again, just for good measure, then roll on outta this pathetic mess. There's an entire universe out there teeming with opportunity for a mech like you. It's truly sad to see someone with a skill set like yours wasting away in a hopeless situation. You're better than that, Lockdown. I've seen you in action. You are a mech above the-"

"The spark do you want from me?" Lockdown interrupted, saving Swindle anymore aft-kissing. He could smell the dealer's pandering like a cloud of putrid exhaust.

"I need you to find out what Megatron's next big move is, before you jeopardize your relationship with him."

"You're a 'con. Ask him yourself."

"I can't." Swindle was starting to sound desperate. "Ever since I jumped shipped and let the EG capture Lugnut and the others, I haven't been in Megatron's good graces. You've got more of an in than I do, what with your connections at Inamorato...General Strika..."

"He's laying low." Lockdown spoke quietly, leery of any potential eavesdroppers. "That's the last I heard and that's all I been hearing since the assassination attempt."

Swindle rubbed his chin, his face contorting as his processor whirred. "That's not like him. Not unless he's up to something big."

Vibes warped back on the scene, urgently plopping herself next to Lockdown.

"You're right, Swindle, that's not like him at all to be serving drinks to drunken EG scum when he should be nettin' some high end targets with me." Lockdown drawled on to Swindle as if they'd been discussing Prowl the entire time. Vibes just sat there stiffly, her gaze locked uncomfortably on Lockdown. "I know, I know." Frag Primus to the Pit he wished she'd get off his case. "Tell him how I feel."

"Nah." Vibes shook her head, her visor unreadable. "Circumstances have changed. Ya may need a new approach."

"What? Why?" Even Swindle was intrigued now. Vibes set her drink tray down then pulled a mini-viewer from her subspace, setting it on the table. Lockdown exchanged a questioning glance with Swindle. Vibes switched the viewer on then played a news feed from earlier that solar. It showed Yoketron's dojo and that pompous old EG General, Dai Atlas. Lockdown couldn't stand that mech and while he typically didn't care what happened to dojo, he didn't want to see it fall into that manipulative fragger's hands.

"Why are we watching this?" Lockdown griped.

Vibes shushed him. "Pay attention. Dis is da part you want to see."

The video zoomed in from the crowed scene into what looked like a budding duel. It was between Prowl and Dai Atlas! Jazz was there, plus another white Autobot Lockdown didn't recognize, but who sported a pair of sexy swords. Lockdown would have taken a closer gander at them had he not been fixed on the black and gold frame preparing to face-off with the scum of the Elite Guard.

"What're ya doin', Prowl?"

Lockdown flinched as Dai Atlas struck Prowl mid-bow, a cheap, dirty move, one that the bounty hunter was more than familiar with. He growled in disgust. The events were starting to hit too close to home.

"Get out of there, Prowl." Lockdown mumbled, too consumed in the feed to care that he had said that out loud. He watched intently as the duel continued, flinching at every blow Prowl took. The scrappy ninja had gotten a few good strikes in, but the hunter could tell he was fighting with his head and not his spark. Poor kid didn't stand a chance against Dai Atlas, not in that frame of mind. It wasn't long before the inevitable occurred, and Prowl was pinned by the enemy's sword. It was harder to watch than Lockdown had anticipated. He was sickened by the sorry spectacle, even more-so as the camera zoomed in invasively-in the true spirit of sensationalized media-not missing a moment of Prowl's shameful exit.

Lockdown fell back into the booth, feeling a blow of humility and disgrace as if he had been the one on the screen. His tanks churned, on the verge of purging. He was baffled as to why Prowl would walk right into Dai Atlas's trap. He thought the kid would have a better grasp at who he was dealing with. Dai Altas wasn't a mech to take for granted. That decorated blowhard always had a way of turning the tables against a mech, using a mech's pride to be his own undoing: making him the bad guy. How dare he do it again. How dare history repeat itself.

"Why dontcha go give that Dai Afthat some mercenary-style payback?" Swindle broke the silence, predictably with some suggestion for monetary gain. "That's a fight I'd put credits on. In your favor, of course. And only after I sold you the best payback upgrades on the market."

Lockdown shook his head. "Ain't my fight." Nothing would bring him more pleasure than to see Dai Altas stripped and beaten down to protoform, especially now, but the hunter vowed long ago he'd never tangle with that mech again.

"What about Oil Slick?" Swindle argued. "That's not your fight yet you're obsessed with-"

"Me'n Oil Slick got history." Lockdown interrupted. "Completely different situation." And a completely different kind of history. "This here is Prowl's mess and he don't need me to clean it up."

Vibes sat quietly, rewinding the video and playing back the end, specifically Prowl's exit, much to Lockdown's annoyance, where there was a close up of the pained, smokey-gray face. She did this twice. Lockdown had to look away but she was studying the ninja meticulously. Lockdown had a feeling he didn't want to hear what she was gearing up to say.

"Know what?" She finally spoke, tapping the hooked arm. "I stand by what I say before. You do need to tell him."

"No." Lockdown replied firmly. "I can't do that. And besides, what good would it do?"

"Offer him da job as bounty hunter den steal away wid him and do all the tings in the universe Swindle talk about."

"You're glitched, girly. Ain'no way he'll agree to it." Lockdown refused to let the femme's words paint taunting images on his cortex.

"He need to get away. Dis life have nutting for him now. You are de key to his comeback. Wit you, he can rebuild."

Lockdown slammed his fist on the table. "Enough. I'm not setting myself up for another rejection."

"Den you do not care about him. Or de dojo."

"Ain't never cared about the dojo."

"You are selfish." Vibes wouldn't budge. "And you are a coward."

"Wouldn't be the first time." Swindle added, using up the last of Lockdown's patience. His arm began transforming into a chainsaw, but Vibes held it back with a tight grip. He about to vent his disapproval of her action but she cut him off, wrestling his weapon into submission.

"Get a hold of yarself, mon!" She let up on his arm once he calmed down, but was not even close to letting up on her lecturing. "Buff up doze ball bearing of yars and tell him how you feel. Remind him how he is da only one fit to be yar partner. If dere is a time he is most prone to accept you, it is now, when his ninja corps is not dere for him. Tell him how you feel, I will not say it again."

"Please don't!" snapped the hunter, pleased to finally get a word in. "Sick of hearin' it."

Vibes shook her head, scowling deeply. "Fine." She shoved herself up off the modded arm, snatching her drink tray. "Don't listen. Be a stubborn old fool who deserbes him misery." She turned on her heel and stormed off.

"That's the best advice she's offered yet." Swindle wasted no time injecting his input. "The Lockdown I know and love is a miserable old bastard. You buy more upgrades when you're miserable, so by all means, listen to her." He rose from the booth, aiming himself in the direction Vibes went. "Now if you'll excuse me, she tends to get the shopping bug when she's pissed off, so this is an opportunity I can't pass up."

Lockdown made no attempts to stop the dealer. He was pleased to be rid of his company-both of their companies! He didn't need lectures. He didn't need advice. He didn't need to see Prowl dig himself into a deeper hole and he certainly didn't need a trip down memory lane with his former mentor. All he wanted was another drink.

Scrubbing his faceplates, he groaned, frustrated, confused, haunted by an unearthed pain and combating the futile dream that that blasted, Autobot femme had just re-seeded. There was no way Prowl would ever say yes. Not now, not ever. Even if hunting was the best solution for him now, the kid was more stubborn than a cybermule in a tar pit and he'd never see things the way Vibes did, no matter how down and out he was. A true Cyber-Ninja would never in a billion stellars partner up with his sensei's murderer, and Prowl was the truest ninja Lockdown ever met, even in defeat.

However, Prowl was also the most unconventional ninja Lockdown had ever met. The most unconventional bot for that matter. And the winds of change blowing across Cybertron weren't skipping over the dojo. Gone were the old fashioned ways. If there was ever a time for Lockdown to make his move...to shed his cowardice, to face his demons, it was now. Yoketron always did say a mech'll never choke to death from swallowing his own pride.

* * *

The sleek black and gold cycle sliced through the crisp Cybertronian dawn, his processor a jumble but his heading strong. He was pulled by a longing magnetism to the war-torn ruins on the outskirts of town, which he had recently claimed as a place of sanctuary. He slowed only slightly upon arrival then propelled with a graceful unfolding onto a rusted tin roof, pedes planting with a skilled silence. Surveying the million credit view of the Mithril Canyon, Prowl welcomed the breeze that intermittently cooled his revved systems. Mornings like these were a blessing: no one tip-toeing around him, asking about his well being, or giving him that look as if he sported a large neon sigh flashing the long list of crimes committed against him. Why couldn't they grasp that he just wanted to be left alone? The aftermath of all his trials was almost more trying than the events themselves. Either Optimus or Jazz would comm him every solar cycle. Arcee babied him constantly and Lockdown...was strangely absent. Probably for the better. He didn't want the old mech's pity. He didn't anyone's pity. It was the pity that stung the worst, and the sorry attempts at sympathy. Prowl didn't need their sympathy. What he really needed was answers.

Yoketron had always talked of Prowl's predetermined path: how everything happened for a reason and it was all comprehensibly interconnected within the ethereal fibers of the All Spark. Prowl had even sampled such infinite understanding once, the moment he left his shell and merged with the All Spark shards. He has ascended to an unimaginable clarity-a whole new dimension of perspective...and power. Pulling Optimus to safety had been accomplished by a near autonomous afterthought, somewhat like the ease of transforming, and becoming one with the enigmatic energies of the All Spark was nothing short of magical. It made the purest of Byte highs comparable to a null ray blast. During this ascension, Prowl hadn't felt the need to look back down on Detroit to witness his selfless handiwork. Vanity and pride were nowhere to be found in the presence of the All Spark. Neither was shame, disdain, regret, or any other form of suffering coinciding with mortality. Merging with the All Spark had been the ultimate reward, yet for reasons alien and maddening to Prowl, he had been denied it. Just like he was being denied everything else that made sense to him.

The Cyber-Ninja's spark ached longingly for an explanation. Had his defiant youth really been so depraved as to warrant him rejection from enlightenment? Why wasn't he deemed ready? What else was he suppose to learn? Why is it every time he thought his darkest hour was upon him, something darker came along?

With a long, heavy ex-vent, the lithe form sank effortlessly into a Lotus pose, but meditation alone wasn't going to cut it this morning. He needed more. Reaching into subspace, he pulled out Yoketron's helmet, its ornate gold detailing immediately glimmered to life under the morning rays, as if fueled by the hope and optimism of a newborn solar cycle. The sight brought Prowl a brief moment of calm, which was quickly consumed by another, long familiar flavor of suffering. He missed Yoketron dearly. He missed the seemingly infinite wisdom that was always readily dispensable. He missed the trials that promised reward of growth and understanding. He missed the forests of Earth and those final days of training under Jazz's patiently cool guidance. There was a peace like none other that accompanied the completing of a Cyber-Ninja's training. He missed the feeling of that earned entitlement, and the worthiness to wear the helmet.

Slowly, apprehensively, Prowl slipped the helmet on, dimming his optics as its pure alloys, heated by the cycle's journey, warmed his wind-cooled helm. It fit perfectly, just as it always had before.

"Master." Prowl spoke softly with a desperate humility. "I need your wisdom once again."

Making every effort to clear his processor of everything, he began humming, drifting, searching, and waiting. Waiting for answers.

The distant shadows shifted their angles inch by inch along the ragged walls of the canyon. As morning progressed, the layers of history hidden in the gorged landscape told their tales with each breaching ray of light. Silence grew ever more extinct as Cybertron awoke. Air and ground traffic increased steadily, polluting the stillness with their song of routine. The Cyber-Ninja's monotone song of meditation was now competing with the infiltration of inevitable outside frequencies, completely breaking his concentration. Bowing his head with a defeated sigh, he stopped humming. It was no use. Yoketron wasn't there. Or perhaps he was, but Prowl's processor was too clouded to sense him.

Prowl's hands clenched into fists, his mouth now quivering with an uninvited rage. Before he knew it, he was on his feet, ripping the helmet from his head and slamming it hopelessly on the ground.

"WHY WON'T YOU ANSWER ME?" His searing baritone echoed through the canyon. "I MADE A STAND IN YOUR HONOR YET YOU NEGLECT ME! WHAT AM I SUPPOSED TO BE LEARNING FROM ALL OF THIS?" WHY AM I THE EXCEPTION TO CYBERTRON'S STATE OF PEACE?"

"State of peace...tate of peace...ate of peace..." traveled down the gouged landscape, then silence. Prowl stood, suspended and desperate, on the brink of madness, waiting for another voice to emerge from...anywhere. But there was nothing.

Dejected, the ninja dropped down from the shack's roof with a shameful clumsiness, feeling the most disconnected from the All Spark then he had since his resurrection. He then collapsed onto the discarded helmet, clutching it tightly and nearly engulfing it with his now double-over frame. He didn't even have the purity of thought to sob. All he could do was wait: pine away in a state of unstable identity and yearn for the level of understanding he had once earned and was now apparently no longer qualified for.


	58. Stars In His Optics

A/N: Toyz here again, bringing you some more of antepathy's Drift/Wing shmoopy goodness while she's off taking care of her sick kitties. *sends ALL the good vibes*

Enjoy! =)

**Stars In His Optics** _by antepathy_

"Heh," Barricade said, around the lip of his high grade as he watched the newcomer push his way into the bar, "This could get interesting."

Onslaught turned, optics aiming over his shoulder along Barricade's line of sight. "New?"

"Drift," Vortex said, leaning closer. "One of Dai Atlas's little…strays."

Little was the right word, Barricade snerked. Mech was barely his size. And Barricade had made the most of what he got—he didn't hold size against the mech, but frag, he knew how hard it probably was for Drift. Especially with a cold piston like Dai Atlas.

"Hmmmph. He's still bent on that whole scheme, is he?"

"Cyber ninjas, samurai, all that. Yes." Vortex subsided back into his seat. "With limited success. Especially if that's the caliber of his applicant."

Barricade stifled a glare. Hey, not every mech was born with silver fraggin' sparkplugs! And Vortex should know that better than anyone. "Kinda surprised he's here after last time," Barricade said.

"Oh?" A quirk in the voice, toning Onslaught's expression.

"Nothing exciting." An unfeigned sigh. He did miss the chance to rough up some Autobot plating, but such were the wages of peace. The pluses of peace were, of course, hot copters with free time. "Don't let his looks fool you: total lightweight."

"He looks like a lightweight," Vortex said, sitting back, crossing one ankle over the knee.

"Yeah well don't be fooled that he is exactly as he looks. No more than meets the optic, with this one," Barricade said. You know, unlike him. "

"Hm." Onslaught risked another look over his shoulder at the white mech, who had stomped, radiating ill grace, to the bar. "Wonder what mission Dai Atlas's sent him on here." His optics rested heavily on Barricade.

Oh wow, be a little more subtle with those hints, huh? "I guess I'll go find out," Barricade smirked, that nose for mischief he'd developed during an all-too-boring peace tingling. He swept his nearly empty cube up, figuring, heh, why not get a refill while he was up? Multitasking. Productivity and all that slag Vortex was always on about. "On your tab!" He snickered, zooming off. Way to stick it to The Mech, Barricade.

He sidled up to Drift, who had planted himself a few feet from the bar, glowering.

"Trying to stare it down?" he asked, with a spectator's curiosity, taking a sip of his drink.

The swordsmech flinched, startled, before pulling himself back together. Huh, Barricade thought, the mech's got that whole focus thing down. Probably didn't see anything in the place other than the bar. Good way to focus in a fight, but frag, not everything was a fight. Even Barricade knew that. "Need to pay for a drink."

Barricade eyed Drift's empty hands. "Yeah? Didn't know we sold invisible drinks."

"Last time I was here. Had a drink. Didn't pay for it."

This had the strange flavor of being some weird honor thing.

"Last time?" Barricade shrugged. "You mean the time you faceplanted on the bar you're trying to set on fire with your mind?"

Drift 's mouth worked. "Yeah."A wince at the memory.

Oh yeah, sorry: Barricade remembered slag like that. "Eh, all that slag was on the EG's tab, mech."

"I meant the one later. In the back room."

Barricade's grin split his face. "You mean my patented hangover cure?" He laughed. "On the house. But the recipe'll cost ya."

"No," Drift said, flatly. "I drank it. I need to pay for it." A hard, almost sullen set to his jaw.

"Listen—" but Barricade's words of brilliance were cut off by a sudden plunge of the lights and a boom over the stereo system. He recognized Skywarp's reedy, nervous voice.

"A-all right, everyone. I hope you're having a nice evening (if not don't hurt me!) and we—we've got some nice entertainment for you to (hopefully!) enjoy. Some of you might recognize him as our new server—he's actually not very scary—Wing!" A squeak of fear, and the announcement shut off. The room lay in darkness for a moment, before a white spotlight sliced the darkness, pointing to the raised stage, striking the even whiter, brighter frame of the new jet, back toward the audience, head tilted down to one shoulder. The effect was dazzling.

The music began, a deep bass rhythm. Wing began to move, slowly, hips catching the tempo of the song, letting it travel up his body in slow, sinuous waves, before the melody started, and he grasped the pole, swinging himself around.

Barricade would grant it: the jet could dance. Barricade didn't even like jets, and Wing's performance was putting some serious tingly happy in his codpiece. He looked over and…

…whoa. Barricade wasn't the kind of mech who believed in love at first sight, but lust at first sight? Yeah and this, right here, was a textbook case. Drift stared, open-mouthed, with the laser's focus that seemed to erase everything in the world but Drift, the music, and Wing's graceful, writhing body. He had it bad.

Wing continued, arching backwards into a walkover, activating a magna clamp on one foot to hook himself onto the pole. He slithered around it, as though rubbing the cold metal against his spine was sensual, before righting himself with a flare of almost blindingly silver wings. He dropped down into a spot on the floor just as silver glitter flurried down from the ceiling at the song's close.

The music cut, replaced by General Strika's voice, in that voice that was more than half-menace. "Is Ving! Ving is new sexydancer, as well as server. Maybe you tip him good now, yes?"

Drift gave a sound that was a whimper of pure want. And this, Barricade thought, could be useful, too. Wing swung to his feet, the secret, inner sensuality of his performance replaced by his usual cheery smile.

Barricade flicked a hand as the lights came up, catching Wing's gaze on his glittering claws.

Wing bounced over, beaming. "Did you like it?"

Barricade jerked a thumb at Drift. "He sure did. Your first admirer."

Drift quivered like a high tension line, mouth snapping shut, as Wing's gold gaze turned to him.

"I'm so glad!" Wing wiggled his hips, excited. "I didn't have any real time to practice, just filling in, but I had fun, and that's what matters, right?"

So many wrongs in that statement that Barricade's mind glitched for a second. But peace was boring and he had a mission: what Onslaught would call 'cultivate an asset'. And right now, the best way for that was straight through—ahem—Wing's wriggly little assets.

"Looked…," Drift choked, tried again. Barricade would give him credit: certainly didn't give up. "Looked good. Like you were having fun. Yeah. That." Barricade could feel the heat from Drift's face.

If Wing registered the erotic tension, he didn't acknowledge it. Barricade had the odds about an even split here: the jet was sexiness in white metal but he sure seemed…clueless.

"I was! But…," Wing prodded at his chassis, leaving a clean smudge in the grayish glitter dust. "Perhaps less glitter next time?" He ended the line with a little flourish. "But on the bright side, you can write on me!"

Frag. If Barricade had to deal with all this perky for very long, he'd spork his optics out. But Drift was halfway between entranced and dumbfounded—accent on the dumb.

"I know," Wing said, stepping closer, grabbing one of Drift's hands. "You should write your name on me. My first autograph! From my first admirer."

"That's not how it works," Barricade said. "Like, the opposite."

"Oh well, that's boring." Wing laughed, a high, bell-like peal of pure joy. "Come on!"

Drift made a sound like 'gurk', his hand shaking in Wing's, as his hand got led to Wing's chassis. He traced his name, slowly, the line wobbling and shaky.

Wing watched, grinning, holding himself still. "Drift!" he said, brightly. "That's a wonderful name."

"It is?"

"It is." A nod. "It sounds lovely, soft and strong at the same time."

Drift seemed to shrink back, as though the praise were just…strange. "I-I like Wing. Beautiful name." A nervous twitch, as he blurted, "Like you."

Wing gave a sort of throaty sound that seemed to mean 'that's fraggin' adorable!' Minus the 'fraggin'. Barricade put all of his formidable mental processes to work and still couldn't imagine the jet cursing. Wing's hand stroked the back of Drift's, like petting a wild animal, optics lambent and intense.

Drift snatched his hand away, mumbling something about having to get back, stumbling backwards and then, Barricade thought, outright fleeing to the door. Heh. Wing was a secret weapon.

"What did I do?" Wing said, his hand half outstretched after the swordsmech. "He seemed so nice. I just wanted to talk."

Lovesickness, obviously. "He's just a bit, I dunno. Overwhelmed or something," Barricade said. "Drift doesn't get out much."

"I wonder if that's why he looks so sad." The gold optics lingered on the doorway, long after Drift had slipped through, moving this time like a frantic ghost.

"Yeah. Probably." A brief thought, of Drift hunched in the back room, browbeaten by Dai Atlas. Sad? Maybe. But remember your job, Barricade. You don't give a frag, officially or unofficially. But you do have a source to cultivate. "He could sure use a friend." BONUS points, Barricade, he congratulated himself for not purging his tanks at that.

A solemn nod. "I would like to be that friend."

Oh frag. This was getting all sorts of schmaltzy. "Yeah, well. You can, like…work on that. But for now," he lifted his empty cube meaningfully.

[***]

Wing's Oblate Journal

_My first day as a dancer: it was fun! Not at all like Chromia warned me about. I just played to the music. I can't believe mechs get paid for it. What a wonderful world we have been given where such joy is paid for!_

_Or is it so wonderful? Maybe that means that such fun is a rare commodity here. I must study this more. I see now why we have these probationary periods: so much to learn that the High Texts don't cover. _

_Another first: I have my first admirer! His name his Drift. He's a groundframe and quite handsome. Or he would be if he didn't look so…tense. _

_Madam Arcee told me it was customary to save the first money one ever earned. She showed me the credit piece, glued to the bar's support pillar. I want to keep this instead: my first admirer. He has the most intense, beautiful blue optics…._


	59. Hunger

A/N: Blackarachnia's meeting with Megatron doesn't go quite as planned.

Warnings: noncon, violence

**Hunger** (_I want it so bad I can taste it. It's driving me mad to see it..._ok I stop now)  
_by Toyz_

Blackarachnia was hungry and this corridor was endless. She was so hungry she couldn't even mentally prepare herself for this inevitable meeting with Megatron with appropriate feelings of anxiety or dread. Curse Tarantulus for brandishing an imported organic delicacy around their newly-acquired lab the other solar. She hasn't been able to erase the sight and smell from her cortex since then and it was really starting to interfere with her basic thought processes.

It wasn't dread she was feeling, that much she knew. She didn't fear Megatron. In the past she used to fear the boredom that ensued during Decepticon meetings, where she lurked quietly in the corner while he pontificated to no end. But a one-on-one meeting with him was entirely different beast with no room for boredom. Megatron put on a special show when he only had a single audience member. A degrading aloofness as if the mere presence of a subordinate was a waste of his time. She must be feeling irritation, but it was tough to distinguish it from her hunger-induced crankiness. If there was any dread for this meeting, it was on behalf of her stomach. Primus knows how long the long-winded Slag Maker would draw it out. Curse both Starscream and Tarantulas for putting her up to this meeting. They owed her, big time. Big, big, time. But what else was new.

Her stomach growled again. This corridor stretched on and on; spiraling up and up to his highness's viewing room. Would it kill the antiquated fragger to install an elevator? All this exercise was making her hungrier. All she could think about now were those bursting bug-based bon-bons, the kind you could find in Kaon's international district. How she'd love to be sinking her fangs into a struggling fleshy delight, her mouth filling with the warm spurting juices of a waning life, completely indulging the part of her that makes every other Cybertronian want to purge. It had been too long.

She let her sinfully gluttonous thoughts carry her to the door of the sky box. Daydreams of lunch would get her through this. She nodded distractedly to Lugnut who had let her in while he was on his way out of the dreaded room. No, not dread. Hunger, and irritation. But that was okay because she operated more efficiently when hungry. And cranky. And irritated. She would make this quick, get right down to business then leave, be done with it. Starscream had said he would take the wheel once she broke the ice, and she was slagging well going to hold him to that, mixed metaphors and all.

Megatron stood at the large viewing window, typically aloof, his back turned to her. "I have not seen this particular pair matched up before." He spoke coolly, his gaze cast to the match below.

Already, the games were beginning, both in the pit and in the room. Frag. Her stomach growled again, but she kept her goal in mind: brief and to the point. She joined the towering mech at the window, chin held high, optics cast down to the fighters. She recognized them as Rattletrap and Dugbase. "Hardly a balanced match." And one she didn't care to talk extensively about. "Shall we get down to busine-"

"At first glance, that is a simple assumption to make," Megatron rudely interrupted, his tone obnoxiously condescending. "However an experienced fighter knows there is more than meets the optic in an anatomically unbalanced match."

Blackarachnia winced, fighting not to convey her rapidly dwindling patience. So much for brevity. So much for her dreams of the lunch discount. Her entire body wanted to growl.

"It takes far more than brute strength to be victor." Megatron continued. "It is a battle of wits."

Blackarachnia couldn't see the wit driving Rattletrap's tactic of clumsily dodging punches and scurrying under the hulking Autbot's legs, but she certainly related to the ball bearings it took to pit oneself against a big dumb behemoth.

"The vermin," said Megatron, "seems to be at a disadvantage, but just wait. He will take a few hits, be made to look the fool, even pushed to the brink of defeat, but that is all part of his approach." There was a rare quality in Megatron's tone, hints of nostalgia and passion. "He tricks his opponent into believing they have the upper hand, takes as many hits as he can until that moment when their pride unveils their weakness. And then he strikes. And he knows exactly where to strike because he has spent the entirety of the match studying his opponent, searching for those key gaps in the armor-what the humans call, an Achilles Heel."

As if on cue, Rattletrap scrambled up from his beaten sprawl, scurried between Dugbase's stumpy legs and straight up the back of him, just out of the snail-paced reach. Dugbase twisted awkwardly, mammoth arms flailing out, his chip-tooth visage betraying his sudden fear and discomfort like an elephant to a mouse. Rattletrap wasted no time sinking his prominent incisors into a major fuel line, triggering sudden paralysis and a surprising high-pitched holler from Dugbase. The crowed awed in a chorus of surprise as their sure bet went crashing to the ground in a pathetic thud, his fall measurable by seismologists.

Rattrap gawped at the stunned masses around him, toothy smile broadening quickly. He climbed upon the fallen giant's back and threw his arms in the air, awaiting a well-deserved praise, but instead he got pelted with empty energon cubes and half-eaten rust sticks.

"Eyyy!" Rattletrap shouted in protest. "What gives, ya mooks? I beat ol'tubby here fair and square!" The crowed responded with a resounding boo, launching even more garbage at the offended Ratbot. "It ain't my fault ya don't know a champ when ya seen one!"

The crowed only got uglier. Blitzwing and Lugnut hurried into the pit to safely escort the scrappy victor out of harm's way. Shortly behind them was that pop-star Autobot, Rosanna, who rushed out to comfort her biggest, sweetest, and sadly fallen fan. That was all it took to put a smile back on Dugbase's mug.

Blackarachnia seemed to be the only spectator rooting for Rattletrap, unless all his fans kept their cheers to themselves. His victory gave her a sense of empowerment. Call it an unexplainable kinship.

"Is this how you spend your time these cycles?" She asked, boldly. "Watching other bots in battle? One would think you'd get bored."

"I have put my time in down there." Megatron retorted, unfazed, turning from the window, hands clasped behind his back. "I have no need to fight because there isn't a single spark in that pit who can defeat me, nor is there anyone I need to prove myself to."

"That's an awfully big assumption from someone who hasn't tasted battle in the better part of a solar." She feigned disinterest as her leader now circled behind her, his optics inspecting every last inch of her, probably searching for the source of her unexpected impudence. He needed look no further than her stomach, which was on a fast track of getting her slagged. "Aren't you worried you'll get rusty?"

Megatron paused, clearly switching gears to counter her attitude, which she found oddly thrilling.

"Blackarachnia." Her name slithered mockingly off of his glossa. "There is much to be learned from spectating. Each battle is an anecdote of battles long past. They are the same stories told time and time again. I watch and I learn."

"I always thought one learned by doing." Blackarachnia watched her leader's reflection pace behind hers. "Which is exactly why I arranged this meeting. Starscream and I have actually done something for the good of Deceptions while everyone else has just stood by and let the Elite Guard walk all over us."

There was the slightest hitch in Megaton's intakes, conveying how her words to got him. As they should have. He quickly regained his composure. "You have succeeded in resurrecting the energon conversion technology?" He asked, his tone betraying a genuine interest.

"We have." She replied confidently.

"Who is we?" Megatron stepped closer to her, engulfing her in his shadow. "I know the two of you alone are incapable of rebuilding the converter. Who is your catalyst?"

She brushed off his attempted insult, uncaring of how he viewed her scientific prowess. She knew she was good. It wasn't a matter of skill that postponed the converter's construction. It was simply specialization. "Tarantulas." She spoke the name as if he was just another Deception, not one that had been in exile for eons. "He is our newest expert in organic chemistry."

Megatron filled his broad chest with a hefty intake then vented it hotly across her form. She stifled a smirk.

"Starscream is being reckless." Megatron grumbled.

"And this surprises you?" Her words came out harsher than intended.

Megatron scowled, his optic twitching. "Very little surprises me anymore." His tone deepened dangerously. "Apart from impudent subordinates."

Blackarachnia stiffened her frame, readying it for the inevitable backlash, which came quickly. Megatron spun her around and pressed her to the glass with one large and demanding hand. "Tell me, you insufferable wretch, why would he ally himself with *another* unreliable outcast?"

"We have our reasons." Blackarachnia blurted through the rush of cyber-adrenaline, strangely amused at Megatron's attempted verbal assault.

"We?" Megatron drew the word out, relaxing a notch, removing his hand from her shoulder and apparently switching tactics. Blackarachnia wasn't sure what to expect from him now. "Are you an equal partner in this alliance, or is he merely taking advantage of you, using you until he gets what he wants."

She twitched. A low blow to the spark. Not surprising. He must be getting desperate. "How soon can we get access to your underground? The sooner production starts the closer the Deceptions are to making our comeback."

"Our comeback?" He stepped closer to her, pinning her by mere proximity. "Do not humor me, bug. You never had the faction in your best interest. You have only ever pursued your own short sighted agenda."

Blackarachnia slipped out from between the gladiator and the window, preferring to avoid more physicality, but he pursued her adamantly, quickly backing her up to the table. She didn't like where this was going. Not one bit. Had she truly pushed him this far?

"Tell me, Blackarachnia, what will you do with yourself once this..." she gasped as he ran the backs of his fingers up her midsection, "organic material is purged? Will you remain in my ranks? It would be a pity to see you shed such," his hand traveled back down and came to rest at her hip, "powerful skin."

"What are you doing?" she hissed. She promised herself she wouldn't react to his antagonizing, but this was too much, and completely unexpected. She had always thought her contamination made her immune to Megatron's advances, figuring he was repulsed by the notion. Maybe he was still repulsed, but he was just that desperate now for control. What had she gotten herself into?

She squirmed, attempting to escape but was always halted by those monstrous hands. They were all over her, covering more ground than two hands should be allowed to. It disgusted her. How did Starscream do it? And enjoy it! These were not caressing hands. They were coarse and forceful, battle-worn, even with the gentlest movement. He was a monster.

"Isn't is obvious?" He growled hungrily, both hands trailing down her back and groping at the arachnid curves.

"But why!" She squeaked angrily, writhing and cringing at the conflicting rush of sensation and emotion. Monstrous touch or no, he still knew how to trigger responses. "What will it prove?"

"I must admit," his words were peppering hot and wet across her neck. "I am rather curious how it would feel. Warm. Raw. Elastic."

"Stop it!" She demanded, abandoning all emotional control but not giving up at the game. "I know what you're doing. You're so transparent it's laughable." She tried punctuate her accusation with laughter but it came out as a whimper instead. "You're using me to get to him!"

"How confident you are," he spoke between each paint-scratching nip, "to assume he cares enough to be jealous." He had her off the ground now, one hand holding her at the small of her back, the other still roaming invasively free. "Starscream cares for no bot but himself."

His words would hurt under normal circumstances, but all she could feel was his torrential touch. "This is not conducive to moving forward with our mutually beneficial plans!" Diplomacy was probably futile at this point.

"Funny." Megatron lifted his head from her neck to make blatantly obvious the smirk skewing his face. "I see nothing but mutual benefits in this. I get to experience the mysteries of your body," she heard the dreaded sound of his interface panel retracting. "And you get to let me."

She hollered out fiercely as he forced her thighs apart, pressing his exposed components against her. The heat was forcing her body to conflict with her mind, sending signals rippling across her sensor net, awakening her bestial urges and spurning a hunger that surpassed the mere craving of food. She knew she couldn't fight it, so she succumbed, allowing each and every organic cell to swell with desire, a rushing mix of blood, venom and energon ravishing her hybrid systems, energizing her with unexpected strength.

Megatron began laying her out on the table and she didn't fight him. All of her limbs relaxed and she dimmed her optics and let the beast withing gain total control, allowing her interface panel to retract.

"Now that's more like it." Megatron chuckled, sinisterly, positioning himself atop her. He shifted his hips, preparing to penetrate her, and there it was: her window of opportunity.

A blinding flash of energized green stabbed viciously into the tyrant's neck and within a shrieking instant, the predacon sprung up and landed on his back, squatting, heels dug in, stingers cocked and dripping with emotionally-charged venom.

"How. Dare. You." Megatron tried to push himself up but didn't have the strength. The paralysis hit him fast and hard.

Blackarachnia's entire frame began surging with strange and powerful data, transformational functions that were there for the taking and taunting her wildly, rendering her body into a needier state of hunger. All she had to do was pick one to appease her appetite. But which one? The first and most obvious choice was the arm canon, very tempting indeed but not right for the situation. The next was mastery of swordplay, but that was pointless without an active opponent. Flight was another option, the ability to take on a helicopter mode, but that didn't do her any good indoors. The last, and clearly the best choice, was a rare one. One she had never seen before because she had never attacked a mech while he was in such an...exposed condition. She couldn't pass this one up. She accepted it, dimming her optics and allowing the code to manipulate her body appropriately.

Within moments, she had her new temporary upgrade, and because her interface hatch had already been open, it had all the space between her thighs it needed to grow. She canted her head and peered at it curiously, smiling and feeling quite empowered. It even matched her color scheme, purple ribbed shaft with a black cap and gold detailing. She cackled.

"You won't think this is so funny when I get through with you." Megatron growled from his helpless state. It's a shame the paralysis didn't effect his mouth. He was ruining the moment. Blackarachnia did her best to ignore him and proceeded to wrap her claws around her new appendage. The action immediately sent delectably alien ripples shooting up her frame and she burst out with more laughter. Megatron growled more. "What on Cybertron are you doing?"

She didn't even hear him at this point. She was too wrapped up in the processor-boggling sensation of stroking oneself, shuddering at each inward pull and squeezing tighter with each one. How did these fragging mechs get anything done with a toy like this always at their disposal? This was...magical.

She needed more. A lot more. The hunger never subsided. Plus she needed revenge. She needed to teach this brute a very, very hard lesson on what happens when he forces himself on her. Time was short so she needed to act quickly. Ignoring Megatron's string of protests as she positioned herself on the backs of his legs, she forced his thighs apart. Heat still radiated from his exposure and it only helped to lure her in. She first sent a pair of exploratory fingers to test out her target, and was surprised to find it cold and apparently neglected. This had to change.

Without further delay, she gave herself a couple more strokes for good measure then went in for her maiden penetration. Megatron hollered out with the wrath of a thousands Unicrons, clearly communicating that his interface equipment wasn't paralyzed either. His valve squeezed her defensively at first, spiraling in and trying its best to push her out, but to no avail. She was in too deep and too determined to see this through. His tightness was ideal but he was cold and dry, which wouldn't do at all. She began thrusting, a new and wild experience that filled her with an potentially addictive power.

Megatron's valve warmed quickly to her rhythmic actions, transfluid encouraging an increase in pace. It felt wonderful, each layer of wetness bringing a new sensational thrill. She gripped his hips and soon found herself pounding him hard, each thrust building more pressure on her now unquenchable hunger, fueled by a frenzied mix of emotions. Anger was quickly becoming the driving force. How dare Starscream put her in this position? How dare Megatron force himself upon her. How dare mechs get sole access to such an untamed thrill. It wasn't fair. None of it was fair. But she would show them. She would show them all. She WAS showing them, with each ravishing thrust, each shriek, each protest from her victim. Oh how it felt good to turn the tables on him. He had had it coming.

"No one," Megatron threatened with strained words, "has ever...dared, nnggghhh. You will...regret this."

Regret could wait until post-overload. He wasn't going to spoil her moment. Or her momentum, which was rocking both of their frames in a carnal dance of improbability. The pressure was intoxicating, an ecstatic build of static pain, a race of emotion and bodily fluids all bottle-necking into into a single passage, frantically pushing for release. Finally she let it go, a shuddering ascent into the unknown, and then everything around her went fuzzy. There was movement, there was a shift of power, there was manhandling, and she thinks she was momentarily airborne. Then there was pain, bruising and denting pain, and when she came to, she was sprawled on the floor, shoulders propped against the wall, a large fuming shadow encompassing her once again.

The gravity of the situation hit hard as Megatron stood over her for what felt like an eternity, postponing her punishment like some kind of sick joke. Wasn't her life supposed to be flashing before her optics? Was the moment purposely being drawn out so she could remember just how empty her stomach was and that she would have to die without ever making it to the international district? That thought alone was it's own separate layer of the inferno. Oh slag, what had she gotten herself into.

"Tell no one of this."

The blackened words caught Blackarachnia off guard. Again, Megatron was behaving unpredictably.

"And I will spare you an eternity of agony."

"You-" She couldn't believe what she was hearing. "You're letting me go?"

In an instant, Megatron was at her level, knee jabbing her in the gut, hand clamped around her neck. "On the condition that you never, ever speak of this to anyone. Is that clear? If I find out you have muttered even a single syllable, then you will be denied the luxury of death. You will suffer in ways unimaginable to the most corrupted of minds. The fate I will damn you to would have you begging for mercy, even pleading to be strapped to an operating table under the knife of an Elite Guard as an alternate punishment. Do you get what I am saying?

"Yes." She squeaked, truly fearful. There was a fury in Megatron's optics that she had never seen before. It was unquestionably terrifying.

"Now, as for our business matters, you will tell Starscream and Tarantulas that I accept the alliance but only under the condition that I, as the Decepticon ruler, get complete control of the operation. None one of you traitorous reprobates will produce a drop of energon without my permission, is that clear?"

"Yes, my Lord." Again, she couldn't believe what she was hearing. Megatron was on board, despite everything that had just happened. And that would explain why she was still alive. He valued their business over his own dignity. He couldn't very well murder one of key players in game he wanted in. That would never earn him an alliance with those who held the key to complete planetary domination. Blackarachnia had to admit she almost admired the self control the warlord was exercising at the moment. Even while consumed with a lust for vengeance, he had the foresight to predict the consequences of his actions, a quality most Decepticons lacked, herself included. That would explain why he was the leader and every other 'con remained in his shadow.

Or, perhaps she was alive because she was just that good of a lay.

With a strong, smooth motion, Megatron peeled her off of the floor, still gripping her by the neck. "Tell Starscream to report to Shockwave at once so we may arrange the proper facilitation to begin production." He then mercilessly shoved her out the door and slammed it behind her. That was that. Meeting adjourned.

Blackarachnia stumbled down the hallway, barely able to walk but getting out of dodge as quickly as possible before Megatron changed his mind. She got partway down the stairs before collapsing onto her knees, supporting herself against the wall. Her head was spinning, futilely attempting to comprehend everything that just happened. She ironically found herself again grasping aimlessly for what she was feeling, what she was supposed to be feeling. Was there even an emotion to cover what had just happened? It wasn't fear. She knew her life was protected so long as she stayed partnered with Starscream. It wasn't regret because that was undeniably the most thrilling, optic-opening experience of her functioning. Suddenly, her body reminded her, with an intense guttural roar, what she should be feeling. Of course. Hunger. One doesn't simply rape Cybertron's most infamous warlord without working up a monstrous appetite.

Blackarachnia pulled herself to her feet and hastily exited the arena, finding sanctuary in the bustling streets of Kaon. If she hurried, she could still make the lunch discount in the International District.


	60. Calligraphy of the Spark

"Drift." Dai Atlas's voice, already thick-edged with disapproval, rang through the evening darkened dojo.

"Yes, Master." Drift turned hastily, hand bumping the inkpot, accidentally sloshing ink over the creamy metal meshplate he had been slaving over for the last cycle and a half. And for all that, only half the poem he had composed was done, his penmanship nervous and slow.

"Drift." Dai Atlas in the library's doorway, the hard edge melting off his voice, replaced by cold confusion. "You are writing?"

"Trying to." Drift's mouth pinched, sullenly. He could read just fine but making words come, much less making them look graceful and elegant, was a lot harder than he'd thought. He looked down at the mesh platen as if with Dai Atlas's gaze, and saw the wobbly scrawl with contempt, and the puddle of ink with downright disgust. What was he even thinking? Other than that he'd give anything to have that beautiful white jet talk to him again, look at him again…notice him.

Stupid, he thought. It had seemed like such a good idea the night before, lying in his barren berth: write a poem, just for Wing, compose it and send it like the samurai he was training to be, court the jet with all the weight of tradition. Since…that was all he had.

"Hmmph." Dai Atlas picked up the platen with some distaste. "Execrable poetry," he said, thinly. "If you want to write, copy something with some merit and not this…trash."

"Yes," Drift said, his voice the hiss of something cut to the quick.

"And your hand." Dai Atlas frowned, the one that seem graven on his severe face. It was impossible for Drift to imagine Dai Atlas ever in love, ever hopeful, ever dashed. He found a solvent cloth, wiping the platen clean; all of Drift's laborious letters gone in an instant. Drift yelped to see it go.

Dai Atlas set the platen before him. "Let us see."

Drift took the brush up, sliding it over the edge of the inkpot, as he'd read in the manual. He began writing his name.

"No."

He froze accustomed to that harsh negative from the sparring floor.

"From the spark, Drift." He felt a tap on his chassis. "Like a sword, every movement should be centered here, each stroke a commitment of your whole being."

Drift bowed his head, venting with the technique Dai Atlas had trained him in, ages ago, to find his center. Carefully, he moved the brush, its soft fibers tracing a clearer, surer line. It looked…better. He gave a huff of satisfaction, even though, well, what was it? A line of ink on paper.

A grunt. "Like that. Yes."

He nodded, and bent to finishing the glyphs of his name. It was better, and that was the hardest part to accept: Dai Atlas was harsh but right. Always right.

Dai Atlas nodded to himself, as if making a decision. "We shall add calligraphy to your regimen. It is a good focus for you. Reading as well." He sniffed at the platen, as if still horrified by the scraps of Drift's erased poem. "The classics; training for the mind."

Drift nodded refusing to allow himself to feel happiness. Training he thought. He would get better. He would improve. And then he would have earned happiness, then he would be smarter, wiser, more worthy of a mech like Wing.

[***]

"Please." The word sounded clumsy and unfamiliar on Drift's glossa, lilting and formal.

Blackout frowned, looking at the message cylinder dwarfed in his huge hands. He'd seen one kind of like it in the Cultural Museum when he'd gone there with Barricade last decacycle. A message cylinder, with the long colored cord tied around it in some secret symbolic knot thing or something. "Just don't know why you don't want to give it to him yourself and stuff."

Drift stammered. "I-I can't. I just can't." There was a nervous energy radiating from his frame, almost worried.

Blackout narrowed his beady optics. "Why not?" He looked down at the tube, suddenly dubious. And aware that if he were Barricade, he'd be grilling Drift like an exhaust pipe and examining the cylinder for explosives. "This gonna make him cry or something? Cause Wing's a nice mech and stuff." Blackout nodded at his own truth. Wing was a nice mech: all he wanted to do was serve drinks and smile. That seemed good sense right there.

"No!" Drift said quickly. "It's just…I mean it's nothing bad." The blue optics flicked to the chrono. "Look I have to go." There was a hint of the alarm Blackout remembered from before, when Dai Atlas had picked him up. "Can you? Please?"

Something in the smaller mech's facial expression, mixed with that memory from last time, tipped his thinking. And Madam Arcee was always saying to give mechs a chance. "Yeah, all right." He turned, lumbering off a few steps before stopping. "Hey you wanna wait for the answer…?"

But Drift was already gone.

[***]

Wing sat in the break room, his gold optics scanning the poem on the flexible white metal. The calligraphy was tense, tight, and the poem, in all honesty, was awful. But through that, he could see, like a fire burning through fog, an ardent, sincere spark, the wild innocent passion behind the clumsy imagery, the stilted letters. He could feel the vulnerability of an offering laid out before him.

Drift. His first admirer. And the first to send him something so sweet, so personal. Wing had been given money before, presents, coins, invitations. But this was special. He clutched it to his chassis, mouth shaping awkward words, his optics brimming with tears, blind to the worried outrage of the huge copter in front of him.

"He said it wasn't gonna make you cry," Blackout said, angry and apologetic all at once, his huge hands fluttering. "I wouldn't have done it if I knew it would upset you."

"No, it's all right," Wing said, sliding one finger under his optics, wiping away the pooling fluid. "This is the good kind of crying."

"Didn't know there was a good kind," Blackout said.

"There is," Wing said, smoothing the silky metal of the platen under his fingers, like a mirror of the brushstrokes now curled in the sheet's interior, like a lover around his beloved.


	61. One Clear Path

A/N: Ohhh, Lockdown.

Warning: Large amounts of geeking over the star charts in the Allspark Almanac 2.

**One Clear Path** _by Toyz_

Another night came to a close and the early rays of Hadeen's wake-up call stretched across the outskirts of Kaon, grazing the classically refurbished architecture of Cybertron's praised bordello and the sleek black figure emerging from its back door. Prowl paused for a moment to absorb the caressing orange warmth, relishing one of the few natural indulgences Cybertron could still offer him.

Lining the back wall of Inamorato was the typical scene of any service industry's backside: trash cans, recycle bins, energon barrels, and Prowl's personal addition, a compost receptacle. Organic material was scarce on Cybertron and certainly not indigenous, but that didn't rule it out from the recycling rule.

The task of sorting through scrap and separating the reusable metals from waste was the least glamorous aspect of the bartender gig, but Prowl didn't mind. If fact he found it cathartic because it sent him back to his ninja-training days when Yoketron would assign his defiant aft to the duty. Master had ingrained the habit of recycling into his students even before Iacon decreed it the law. He was green before it was cool to be green. As a feisty young cyclebot, Prowl could have never imagined he would look back on discarded iron filings with such nostalgia, but the eons have a way of changing a bot.

A prime example of this change just happened to be lurking several paces away, mistaking his piecemeal chassis as undetected by the bot it was so adamantly fixed on. Prowl smirked. Had the bounty hunter forgotten he was in the presence of a ninja?

"Take a holoscan." Prowl spoke coolly. "It will last longer." He had overheard some chatter that Lockdown had returned from a job in the Vestial Imperium, and knew it was only a matter of time before the modded miscreant came calling. Well, maybe not so much knew, but hoped.

Lockdown didn't respond, simply kept his gaze fixed, his intentions hidden in the shadows. Leave it to the hunter to find a shadow to lurk in during the brilliantly luminous dawn. As he approached he shifted his attention to Prowl's task, staring as if it was a feature display at a curiosity shop.

"Answer me something." When Lockdown finally spoke, his timbre was oddly soothing with a twinge of predictability. Prowl did not know what the hunter was gearing up to ask but he could count on the assurance that it wouldn't be what every other bot had been asking lately: 'Are you okay, Prowl?', 'Is there anything I can do for you, Prowl?', 'How're ya holding up, buddy?'. The same lines over and over, backed with the best intentions but just...not what Prowl needed. Lockdown never approached him this way, probably because he always had self-serving intentions which for once, Prowl was not bothered by. This unpredictable old mech always had something distractingly...well, unpredictable up his modded sleeve. It was obnoxiously charming.

"Why," the hunter began slowly, "in the seven moons of Thulsa..." The fragger kept pausing, intentionally drawing it out, no doubt sensing Prowl's struggle to stifle his anticipation. "Do ya bother?"

Prowl exvented, rolling his optics. The recycling. Lockdown was asking about the recycling. They haven't spoken since Lugnut and Strika's engagement party, when Prowl allowed himself to be whisked and whirled in a dizzying escape across Inamorato's dance floor by this bizarre mech, and he's asking about the recycling. It had been an memorably enchanting evening, one which most conventional pairings would have discussed in the solars to follow, prefaced with a proper greeting of sorts: 'Hello, how are you doing? I had a splendid evening with you. Thank you for the dance.' But Prowl had learned quickly that there as no such thing as a conventional conversation between the two of them. And oddly enough, in this moment, Prowl didn't mind.

"Our planet is dying, Lockdown. Perhaps if you actually bothered to spend extended periods of time here, you would be more knowledgeable of our depleting resources." Who needed to greet someone with a cliche line when you could lecture them. "If Cybertronians do not make it a habit of using our resources wisely, then we'll soon find ourselves _mining_the seven moons of Thulsa and damning them to Galleon's barren fate."

"I'm full aware of the energon crisis, kid." Lockdown propped his bulky elbow on a bin, relieving his shoulder of the modded arm's unnatural weight. "And I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but the big dog mining companies already started placing bids on Thulsa's ore-rich mountains. Their fate is sealed."

Prowl sank a little. He had hoped the rumors weren't true. "Why doesn't that surprise me."

"Now, I didn't ask what you were doing." Lockdown continued. "Hell, that's more n'obvious. I asked _why_. The time you conservationists spend diddlin' with scrap metal could be spent doing better things."

"Like what?" Prowl smiled internally at the obvious segue, knowing exactly where Lockdown was steering this.

"Like..." Lockdown paused, winding up for the pitch. Prowl wondered what dashing way would the hunter come on to him this time and he hoped to Primus the warming of his faceplates wasn't obvious. "Well, like maybe ah...maybe takin' a morning joyride...with me." Not as dashing as he expected, but still charming in an irresistibly awkward way. Prowl was about to put the old fool out of his misery with a "yes" but the mech kept talking, specifically about issues growing near and dear to Prowl's spark.

"Don't worry about this scrap." Lockdown went on. "Let the stylus-necks at the Ministry of Science deal with our planet's issues. That's their job."

Prowl sighed. "A job they keep on the back burner because the Elite Guard repeatedly tasks them with building war machines. We can't rely on them to solve our problems. Each of us needs to play a part in order to protect both our planet's and our neighboring planets' futures, which means we need to take time out of our self-indulgent schedules to..._diddle_ with _scrap_."

"I disagree."

"Why doesn't that surprise me!" Prowl tossed a handful of lead scraps into the appropriate bin with more force than necessary, cursing at the Autobot government for managing to spoil this moment without even being here. "Must we discuss politics?"

"No. But since you brought it up, lemme make my point."

Prowl sighed again, signaling Lockdown to continue with a relenting gesture.

"Ya ever," Lockdown leaned back on his propped arm, making himself comfortable, "been to Velocitron?"

"Once. When I was a youngling."

"So ya know all about the structure a'their society, how it's a giant tourism hub, everything based around racing and all the leisurely activities that revolve around that kinda culture."

"Yes. It's a veritable Pleasure Island for grounders."

"Exactly. It's non-stop thrills there. Tracks operatin' day and night. If one track shuts down for maintenance, you can count on several others still runnin' at full boar." Lockdown really did love the sound of his own vocals. Did Prowl not just say he was familiar with all of this? "It's like those neon-lit earth towns centered around gambling and nightlife."

The one thing keeping Prowl's patience from completely dwindling was that he also enjoyed the rich and grizzly sound of Lockdown's vocals, at least when the old rounder knew what he was talking about. "I understand how Velocitron works, Lockdown. What is your point?"

"What do ya think fuels their constant burning a'the midnight oil? You don't see bots there taking time outta their tune-ups and betting and trophy flaunting to sort through the mounds of grandstand trash do ya?"

"No." For spark's sake, Prowl thought, would this long-winded mech make his point already? There are joyrides to be taken while the dawn is still fresh. "They should because it is a good practice, but it is not required for their survival."

"And why is that?"

"Do you seriously not know or are you patronizing me?"

"Indulge me for a klik, Prowl. I wanna know what the common belief is concerning Velocitron's energon reservoir. The Autobot Academy had taught their younglings different takes on it throughout the generations."

"It's not a belief, Lockdown. It's tried and true science and it has been that way for eons. If you had bothered to pay attention in primary school, you would remember the lesson on energon crystal growth rate and how Velocitron's fortunate placement in Autobot Commonwealth allows its crystals to replenish quicker." Prowl could feel himself fall victim to the vanity in hearing one's own voice, but he didn't care. He had always been proud of his scholastic aptitude and, despite his later misgivings to the Autobot's stance in the Great War, had enjoyed his early stellars in the Autobot Academy. "As I hope you know, energon crystals absorb their power when nebulae-born particles of a very specific and primordial nature collide with them. Cybertron receives its radiation from only the Eshems Nebula, whereas Velocitron has a close proximity to three: The Bot Nebula, The Skeleton Nebula, and the G Nebula 89. Their crystals regenerate at a rate three times that of Cybertron's, therefore sustaining the planet's excessive energon consumption."

"Nah." Lockdown picked at the gap in his denta with a piece of scrap metal. "You're wrong."

Prowl let out something between a sigh and groan. "Here we go."

"That cockamamie ya just spewed at me is what the EG programs their teaching units to tell younglings, but that ain't how it goes in the real world."

"Is that so." Prowl realized quickly the futility of exasperation around this mech and instead allowed himself some amusement. "Well don't stop there, oh wise and learned one, please enlighten me."

"Gladly." Lockdown returned a smile then glanced away awkwardly. "You got that part right about the nebulas and particles and such, but what they don't tell ya is that even at three times the regen rate of Cybertron's crystals, Velocitron still doesn't have enough energon to sustain 'em. The regrowth rate was sped up artificially, using a...crystal growth hormone a'sorts that allowed the crystals to absorb multiple kindsa particles radiated off the nebulas-er, nebulae and convert 'em into an enhanced energon. Don't ask me to explain the tech, cuz I ain't got the foggiest how all that scrap works, but I do know that a brilliant 'con scientist figured out a way to not only boost the crystal's growth rate, but create an energon derivative that burns hard and strong in grounder systems."

"You mean like a steroid?"

"Yeah, exactly."

"That would explain why I raced faster and for longer periods of time during my visit there." The thought of ingesting artificially enhanced energon nearly made Prowl nauseous.

"Slag don't burn too clean, but damn does it feel good." Lockdown clearly had an opposing view on the matter.

"Which 'con was it?" Prowl's curiosity was fully piqued. It wasn't a hard truth to swallow that the Elite Guard would cover up a discovery like this, especially if it came from a Decepticon."

"Same varmint that had an experiment go haywire and change both him and a pair of hostage Autobots into techno-organics."

"Tarantulus." Prowl added assuredly.

"That's the one." Lockdown continued. "So Tarantulus...before the accident of course, developed this tech specifically for Velocitron under some strict agreement that benefited both parties equally. I don't know the details of the exchange, but you can bet Tarantulus made off like a bandit once it was all said and done."

"Are you telling me that the Autobots have the technology to solve our energon crisis, yet they chose to keep it a secret because they bought it from a Decepticon?"

"Kinda."

"Kind. Of. Lockdown, it's 'kind of', not kinda." All of this information wasn't sitting well with Prowl. He didn't like it no matter what angle he looked at it from. Either the Autobot Academy had been deceiving generations of bots for centuries or Lockdown was deceiving him, for reasons he couldn't fathom, instead of following through on the joyride invitation. "I don't know what you have against the word "of". It is a perfectly acceptable word and requires only a little more effort to pronounce than uh."

Lockdown refreshed his optics, regarding Prowl with an irritated brand of perplexity. "Do you wanna hear me out on this or do you wanna play teaching unit all morning? Primus knows I got the time to spend with ya, but I would think you'd have some place to be after your shift."

"I..." Prowl regained his composure, feeling slightly silly but not enough to apologize for it. He shifted his attention back on his meticulous sorting task. "I don't have any place to be. However it is not worth my time hanging around bots who never learned how to speak properly, especially bots who have been kicking around the universe as long as you have, learning valuable information for restoring our planet but choosing for spark knows what reason to keep it to himself!" He gave up on the filings and slammed the waste bucket down on the ground.

Lockdown kept his gazed fixed on Prowl, his intense optics betraying an obvious concern. Prowl probably just blew any chance he had for a pleasant outing. Curse his temper. He began conjuring up the words for an apology but froze when Lockdown began leaning toward him, reaching for the waste bucket.

"Please excuse my, unsophisticated manner of conversing." When the old mech spoke it was smooth but unnaturally eloquent. And admittedly cute. "As a yougling, I participated in a variety of extra-curricular activities which unfortunately conflicted with the scheduling of my primary linguistics academia."

"That is unfortunate." Prowl smiled against his will, watching curiously as Lockdown plucked metal scraps from the bucket and tossed them into the appropriate container. "Linguistics was one of my favorite subjects of study. Tell me, what manner of extra-curricular activities diverted you from such fascinating studies?"

"Kickin' nerd skidplates."

Prowl chuckled. "You're pathetic."

"And racing on Velocitron," Lockdown continued. "Which is when I learned all about everything I'm tellin' ya now. Any bot can learn it if they bother t-to veer off the propaganda track and dig a little deeper into the planet's history. Cybertron's Hall of Records ain't...well, it isn't the only place a bot can learn a thing or two."

Prowl's amusement waned as he noticed Lockdown's game-train derailing again. "Are you...is everything okay?"

Lockdown was now focusing far too intently on picking out iron filings from the bucket. There was a long pause before he spoke.

"Was planning on asking during our joyride." He kept his gaze down, fingers sifting clumsily through the waste. "But seeing how we're already on the topic...yanno of other planets and expanding horizons and of...deep space adventuring and-"

"We..." Prowl's spark fluttered. "We actually haven't discussed deep space adventuring."

"Oh." Lockdown finally made optic contact. "We haven't?"

"But we should." Prowl blurted, Lockdown's awkwardness apparently spreading.

"I..." Lockdown set the scrap bucket aside, attention now fully devoted to Prowl, his confidence restoring. "I agree. Better yet, how 'bout we live it. Hell kid, you gotta get off this planet for a while."

"A-a vacation?" Prowl's spark now skipped. A vacation sounded wonderful. An absolute escape with the one mech he could depend on not to remind him of everything he currently despised about the Autobot brand. Vacations always cleared a bot's head. Master used to encourage taking them when life got to heavy. How fickle fate was that it would be this mech of all mechs to provide the means to follow Master's advice, but if there was one truth Prowl could rely on, it was that the universe worked in mysterious ways.

"Not exactly a vacation." Lockdown replied. Prowl's cognitive wheels came to a screeching halt. "It's more of a...career change...for you." The awkwardness returned. "Because you need to. And I'm not saying you ain't a good bartender, that's not at all what I'm trying to...Ah hell, Prowl, will ya partner with me?"

Prowl stood, frozen like the hoofed earth beast in the beams of his night vision, too petrified to properly recall the most cliche of human similes. He wasn't expecting that at all. Never even considered it but marveled at the sense of it. It was even more tempting the second time around. Much, much more. Turning a partnership proposal down the first time had been a no-brainer, regardless of its allure. It had been the right thing to do. The only thing to do. He would have never abandoned Optimus or the team. Not in his right mind, no matter how glamorous the offer. But things are different now. There is no ragtag space bridge repair crew. No humans to protect. No threat from the Decepticons. There is only a dying Cybertron run by a corrupted government. There was no one to be accountable to. Nothing to lose. Optimus would understand, given the current state of things.

"Lockdown, I am speechless. And again, quite flattered you deem me worthy."

The hunter stepped close, close enough to vent his warm and hopeful sincerity across Prowl's windshield. "You're the only partner material I ever met." He placed his hand, one of the few original parts of his body, on Prowl's shoulder. "Whattya say, kid? Leave it all behind. Ain't nothing for you here, not since the dojo's been disgraced." The hand slide down Prowl's arm then grasped his hand with a comfortable hope. "Let it all go."

* * *

He hadn't expected him to accept. The odds were stacked against him all along. Lockdown knew it. Recent events only opened a tiny little percentage chance that the kid would accept his proposal. The rejection didn't come as a surprise, not like the first time when the hunter had built his hopes up. The lesson had been learned. He hadn't build his hopes up a second time. Popping the question was really just a means to closure. Now Lockdown could move on. No bot should occupy the thoughts of another so steadily. It's not healthy. Lockdown was happy to move on. This rejection was a release. He hadn't once expected Prowl to accept. Asking for a partnership again was simply a way to cheer the fragger up.

The drive back from Inamorato was brutally long. By the time the muscle car rolled up to the Death's Head's ramp, his idle had mutated into something uneven, spluttering, and just downright ugly. But shifting into root mode had fixed this problem before. It should fix it again.

Walking onto the bridge, something still felt off. Parts rattled, cylinders misfired. Old age was merciless on a bot, but it wasn't anything a good 'ol tune-up couldn't fix. Now where did he put that tool chest? Other side of the bridge. One pede after the next would get him there. It was on the second shelf up from the bottom, he could see it from here, and it's a good thing because each step closer brought an increasingly painful jab to his spark chamber. Finally the kit was within reach. There it was, directly under the upgraded rocket boosters.

These rocket boosters had been upgraded specifically for off-planet stealth missions and painted with a gorgeous, metal-flaked color scheme of black and gold.

The boosters jetted across the bridge but not by their own propulsion. Following behind them was the tool kit: wrenches, screwdrivers, nuts and bolts all spilling out in a chaotic frenzy. The entire supply shelf came next, hurled over by a raging pair of mismatched arms. Then the trophy shelf, its prizes scattering, shattering, clanging and crashing in a veritable symphony of destruction. Amidst the cacophony was a tortured roar: a beastly cry from a tired old spark twice bitten, barely audible over the storm of shelves toppling over one after the other.

When there was nothing left to sentence to the floor, he flung himself down, stumbling over upgrades-turned-debris, flinging any last object within reach until finally surrendering into a pathetic splay across his littered floor. He bellowed out one final excruciating protest before his systems forced him into regenerative stasis.

When he rebooted, everything was fuzzy yet there seemed to be only one clear path to follow. A comm call.

He cycled air deeply, quelling any pings of opposition in his cortex, then dialed a familiar frequency from his list of clients.

/Lockdown.\\ The properly sinister voice took twice as long to answer the call, just as Lockdown had anticipated. That was how his most regular client always operated.

/Megatron.\\ His vocals were hoarse. /Heard a rumor you were hiring.\\

* * *

Prowl basked in the hunter's designer wax-scented proximity. The acceptance was at the tip of his glossa. It was an opportunity like none other: a sorely-needed escape. The words were formulated, they just needed to be spoken and Prowl would be on the way to a new life full of excitement, danger, exploration, and best of all fun.

But then Lockdown brought up the dojo. Yoketron's dojo. The place Prowl first found himself that was now left to the wolves. Defiled, defaced, a shell of what it once was. And how long before it became a tool of war? Just another training ground like the Autobot boot camp. Never again able to transform lost sparks the way it had transformed Prowl. He couldn't let that happen.

"I can't." The words emerged weakly, stinging on delivery. Stinging them both. The warmth between the two mechs dissipated quickly as Lockdown took a step back, but Prowl had no choice but to stand his ground. To stay on his path. "I'm sorry, I can't."

The ninja's spark sank, once again, to an aching depth. No other words were spoken. The hunter simply nodded and faded back into the shadows. No morning joyride. No flirty come-ons. No goodbyes. Not even a wink. And for the first time since Prowl was employed at Inamorato, the task of sorting reusable waste was left unfinished.


	62. A Stellar Plan

A/N: Thank you faithful readers for sticking with the story and for your reviews. It is very much appreciated. I know updates are sparse but I assure you they will keep coming.

As always, much thanks to my faithful collaborators for the beta.**  
**

And now, I present the chapter in which Megatron and Starscream dump a whole heap o'exposition in y'all's lap in the way that only those two can.

**A Stellar Plan **

_by Toyz_

"She kicked you out, didn't she?" Chromia appeared at Starscream's private booth, spinning an empty drink tray on her spiny little fingers.

Starscream didn't dignify her assumed cleverness with a response, just gave her the elevator eye.

"How very sad," she continued with dramatized sympathy. "The great Starscream has no place left to go."

"Your complete and utter ignorance of what happens outside of these walls amuses me." Starscream made a shooing gesture. "Now go flitter around your little pole and leave me be."

She didn't budge. In fact she moved in closer. "The madams hired a new dancer." She motioned toward the stage where unfamiliar yet intriguing white flier was performing some sort of alien interpretive dance, much to some drooling red and white grounder's fascination. "Which means I'm on waitstaff tonight. Which means I can't leave until take your drink order." She was now leaning shamelessly on the table. Starscream leaned away. "So, are you going to order or are you going to wait until your party arrives?"

"There's not a party, it's just the one." Starscream said without thinking, still watching the events at the stage.

"Oh?" She canted her head and began drumming her fingers on the table, knowing grin plastered on her garishly sparkling face. "And who might that be?"

Starscream cursed internally. He walked right into that one. "Get out of my business you nosy imp!"

Chromia only inched tauntingly close. "It's a business meeting then?". She then peeled her body from the table and turned to leave. "I'll come back when your date arrives."

"He's not my date!"

"Ah ha, so it's a he!" she called out, strolling away victoriously.

"Curses!" Starscream pounded his fist on the table, frustrated with himself. He hated that little pest and her ability to get a rise out of him. She had better not come around too often after Megatron arrived. The last thing he needed was her interference in what was already a laborious business deal.

Starscream sighed, rubbing his faceplates, trying his damnedest to convince himself he wasn't nervous. What did he have to be nervous about? He was the one with the power after all. Megatron needed him, not the other way around. The only reason Starscream wanted this alliance was because it would move the energon production process along more quickly. Megatron had all the resources: the property, the bot-power, the connections. It would take stellars for Starscream to acquire all of that on his own and he didn't want to wait that long. It was worth the hassle of dealing with the tyrant's power plays and bullying games, and it's not like the old fool had anything new to bring to the table. Starscream could predict all his moves, and lack there of. The mech would be putty in his talons.

Now if only he could get that putty memo out to Inamorato's staff so every time the tin tyrant walked into the joint, they wouldn't freeze like new recruits on the front line, just like they were doing now. Curse Megatron and his grand entrances. The great Starscream should be the one making entrances like that. He should and he will! Once the wheels of his plan are set in motion.

Megatron surveyed the club, purposefully taking his time before outwardly acknowledging Starscream in his private corner booth with all its ridiculously velvet upholstery and unnecessarily frilly decadence. Why did they choose to meet here again?

Megatron crossed the room with merely a few grand strides, shadow sweeping over guests' tables and eventually creeping into Starsream's booth. Starscream beheld him with a world of emotion, all of which he stuffed down deep in order to pose as fearless, showing the towering mech that nothing, not even the stinging memories of their last encounter here were affecting him. Megatron held his gaze, glowing optics unreadable from the silhouette they shown from. The damn back lighting was painting him much more intimidating than Starscream felt was accurate. His sensor net was now in disarray, alternating between chills and heat surges as the massive shadow then stretched out invasively over his wing. He fought back a shudder.

"Explain to me," began the warlord, "why on Cybertron you arranged to conduct our business here."

"Me?" Starscream huffed, easily assuming an argumentative stance as it was much more welcome what he had just been feeling. "I assumed you, with your history of poor decision-making, had picked it."

"Don't be ridiculous," growled Megatron. "This is not-"

"My Lord." He was cut off as Chromia oozed onto the scene, optics enlarged and aglow. "Hello and welcome." Starscream rolled his optics. "May I get you a beverage? Our finest gold label we only reserve for our most distinguished of guests?"

Finally, Starscream thought, something worthwhile came out of that mouth. "I would like one of tho-"

"I don't care." Chromia barked over her shoulder in a tone opposite of what she was using with Megatron. She was lucky Starscream had the manners not to backhand her.

Megatron didn't miss a beat. "My dear Chromia." He brushed his fingers down the doting floozy's cheek before taking his seat, making a disgusting show of it. "Why don't you surprise me."

"Okay." She said stupidly, floating off in a daze. Starscream was getting more nauseous by the nanoklik. He should be grateful that Chromia's diverting some of Megatron's romantic interests, seeing how Starscream wanted none of it, but the fact that it was her just made his circuits crawl.

"How can you tolerate her?" Starscream wrinkled his nasal plating as he paid the flimsy-winged waitress one last glance. "Insecticons are nothing but cheap knock-offs of real Decepticon fliers."

Megatron kept watching her, his mouth daring to smile. "She adores me."

"She's an aft-kissing, self-serving, untrustworthy whelp," said Starscream, remorseless.

Megatron finally met Starscream's optics again, one optic ridge rising slowly. "Takes one to know one."

"Hardly." Starscream jabbed his thumb into his cockpit. "I am of use to you. She is merely a groupie." As if he even has to compare himself to her.

"She is a valuable asset."

"Yeah, sure she is." Starscream wasn't buying it. She was just a means to try and make him jealous. A pawn in Megatron's petty games, which Starscream refused to take part in.

"She," Megatron spoke assuredly, "has been extracting classified information from each and every hapless Elite Guard official that berths with her."

"Oh big deal. She uses her little," Starscream flapped his hands in a silly gesture, "hypno-wing thingies to make drooling idiots out of her clients. Anybot could do that if they had her mods."

"Her wings are clamped and they remained clamped even behind closed doors. She is gifted with a golden glossa." Megatron spoke as if he was actually impressed.

Starscream fought back a flare of jealously. "I'm sure you know all about that," he murmured, casting his glance toward the bar. Little miss asset better return with two drinks and soon. The quicker she could finish up her golden glossa'd interference, the better. And Starscream could really use his drink right about now. "So," he shifted gears, badly needing to move on to business. "How did your meeting with Blackarachnia go?"

"Fine," said Megatron, his voice clipped and his optic twitching. He shifted uncomfortably in the booth, his gaze darting around the room. "What did Shockwave tell you?"

"Shockwave said..." Starscream spoke slowly, processor whirring, optics studying his leader's oddly awkward demeanor with an empowering curiosity. What in the All Spark had happened during his meeting with 'Rachnia to make Megatron react this way? Starscream never did get a straight answer from her.

"Shockwave said..." Starscream tried again, "Well, he didn't say much." Blatant lie. Shockwave always said too much; went overboard with details, which was weird coming from a bot with no mouth. Starscream knew they were already prepping Kaon for the energon production, but he wanted to hear it from Megatron, especially now that the night just took for the entertaining. He leaned back, propping his elbow on the booth and making himself comfortable as he enjoyed the spectacle before him.

"I find that hard to believe. "Megatron spoke, wincing has he tried to sit up tall." I specifically ordered him to debrief you on the plan."

"Then he must have," Starscream began, cheekily, "disobeyed your order." The night just got that much better at the thought of Shockwave getting in trouble for no reason.

Megatron vented an annoyed sigh. "According to Shockwave's calculations, the facilitation you requested was inadequate for the size of the operation I wish to execute."

"Impossible," Starscream countered casually. "My calculations are infallible."

"Your calculations," Megatron pressed, "were based on a pathetically small scale. I would have thought, given your track record of repeated failures, that you would have learned to think bigger, Starscream."

So early in the evening to be playing the insult card, isn't it Megatron? "If we produce too much too quickly, we won't be able to hide it from the Autobots."

"That is why you run a cover operation, you simpleton. Did you not consider this?"

And now name-calling? Oh this was too easy. "Of course I did you pompous aft. But even that won't stop the Elite Guard from investigating any economic growth coming out of Kaon."

"If Kaon's key industry..." Megatron spoke as if it was a chore: as if everyone on the planet knew this information and he shouldn't have to repeat it. Starscream always hated the way he did that. It made him feel stupid even when he knew he wasn't. "...is also profitable for Iacon, then they won't bother with extensive investigations.

"What we could we possibly manufacture that Iacon needs and can't produce themselves?"

Megatron made to speak but was cut off once again by Chromia, who slide up with a teetering drink tray, attention fully locked on her gladiator.

"Stellar panels," she cooed, serving Megatron a distinguished drink garnished with her dreamy smile. She slowly placed a napkin his lap, making sure to smooth it out more than necessary.

"That's a peculiar name for a drink." Starscream remarked, trying to look away from their actions. He jerked back as the femme slammed a bottle of low grade in front of him and tossed him a napkin over her shoulder.

Megatron smiled something grotesque, cupping Chromia's smile-stretched cheek. "It's not a drink name you imbecile." He optics were fixed on Chromia but his words were targeted at Starscream. "It is a brilliant idea."

Starscream's jaw began dropping. Megatron continued his display, caressing her petite faceplates with his massive thumb. She soaked the attention up like a sponge. A stupid, pointy-eared, smug-faced sponge who just happened to get lucky with her one good idea. Starscream pouted.

"Wherever," said Megatron, "did you dream it up, my angel?"

"We get a lot of blabbermouth Iacon business bots in here," said Chromia, gesturing showily to her ridiculous bunny ear audio receptors. "And these babies aren't just for show. I've learned a thing or two about the bears and bulls of the Autobot market."

"Once again, my dear, you prove yourself worthy of your new insignia." Megatron offered Chromia a sip of his drink, which she took without hesitation, despite the house rules.

Starscream was at his limit of grossed out. If either of them made any more googly gestures at the other, tables were going to flip. He took a hefty swig of his low grade so he didn't have to watch her sway away with those popping hips, or watch Megatron watch her. The drink didn't help his rising need to purge. It was as bottom shelf as low grade could get, that bitch.

"Brilliant." Megatron sipped his drink with a crooked smile. "Stellar panels are the perfect cover."

"I guess," Starscream shrugged, swirling his bottled sludge and lustfully eyeballing Megatron's drink. "We should consider other options though. Weigh the pros and cons."

"Pro number one," began Megatron with a renewed vitality. Starscream was already dreading this speech, knowing he could come up with a better idea than Chromia's if Megatron would only shut up for klik. But there was no stopping the mech once he got on a role. "It's an environmentally conscious product. The politicians will endorse it to win favor with the rapidly growing progressive population."

Starscream nodded. It was a fair point. Megatron continued. "Pro number two: It is a product that produces energon, which will be the ideal facade for Kaon's sudden spike in energon flow. And pro number three: that mutated outcast you have allied yourself with is an expert with extracting energon from stellar radiation, which means-"

"Which means," Starscream interrupted, knowing where Megatron was going with this, however he despised the notion that Tarantulus was the only one being hailed for his scientific expertise. "Either Tarantulus, or Blackarachinia..." Megatron twitched again, causing Starscream to pause momentarily. He really needed to find out what happened in that meeting. "Or...or myself can actually create a legitimately functioning stellar panel to sell to the Autobots and keep their suspicions at bay."

"Precisely," said Megatron. For the first time of the night, they were finally on the same page.

"It's...it is brilliant." Starscream couldn't deny it. But it's not like it was ALL Chromia's idea. She only dropped the keyword. Starscream scanned the room in search of her and just happen to catch her looking directly at their table. He smirked at her then scooted in his seat toward Megatron, just enough to make her wonder. Suddenly the prospect of making this meeting all business seemed dreadfully dull and seriously lacking in payback.

"The master converter," Megatron continued, suspiciously eyeballing Starscream's actions, "will be installed in the arena's underground where all deliveries of organic material will be brought. That is also where the inventory of cubes will be stored. The Autobots do not know of the existence of the underground catacombs, therefore they will never look down there." Starscream leaned into his palm, giving Megatron his undivided attention, almost exaggeratedly so. Megatron became skeptical, but continued on anyway. "The abandoned factories around Kaon will be refurbished into stellar panel production plants and I will need you to properly staff them with reliable Decepticons. Not neutrals, not defectors, not predacons. Decepticons. Do you understand?"

"Absolutely," Starscream pandered.

Megatron was not impressed. "The converters we install there must appear to function as panel assembly lines. I expect you and your...beastly comrades to competently develop this machinery. It must be believable enough to convince the best Autobot engineers."

"We won't let you down, my liege." The old rustbucket really could devise a plan when he wanted to. Starscream hated to admit he was genuinely impressed.

"We will also use the factories as weapon manufacturing plants. This too will need to be disguised as stellar panel technology." Megatron's tone had relaxed a notch. Starscream could only assume his compliance was having an effect on him.

"It's a solid plan so far as I can see," said Starscream. "My one question is how will we smuggle in enough organic material to support conversion on this massive of a scale?"

Megatron smiled coolly. "I have made arrangements with the best of the smugglers and black market scoundrels on Cybertron. They will take part in covertly importing our resources from the list of exploitable organic planets you provided."

"How dependable are these lowlifes?" Starscream was skeptical. "We can't rely on neutrals and self-serving ingrates who might squeal to the Autobots for the right price."

"I have employed Swindle and Lockdown."

"Swindle?" Lockdown!?" Was Megatron really this naive after everything he just schemed? "Have you forgotten that Swindle sold us out to the Quintessons?"

"And then he redeemed himself by turning on them. He does afterall wear our insignia."

"Well Lockdown doesn't!" Starscream had raised his voice loud enough to attract a curious glance from the ninja bartender.

Megatron's smile vanished. "Will you keep it down." He hastily pulled shut the modesty curtains of their booth, completely blocking the club's view of them. "Your hyperactivity is liable to expose us before we before we manage to convert a single drop."

"Lockdown," Starscream whispered, leaning in closer, "has been spending all of his spare time with the Autobots lately. What makes you think you can trust him? For all we know, he's in the process of earning their badge. He is a grounder, you know."

"Because," Megatron spoke in a quiet and threatening tone, "he knows I will dismember him from all his acquired appendages if he turns on me. He is also petty and easily bought with shiny objects. So long as we remain the highest bidder, he will do our bidding."

Starscream couldn't deny that. If there was one thing Lockdown could be counted on, it was betraying anyone for the right price.

"And besides," Megatron added, "I have devised an entire covert team to travel with him on the trips to other planets. They will operate under the guise of a mobile escort service.

Starscream nearly spat out his drink. "A what!?"

"You heard me." Megatron now leaned in, so as not to be overheard by the patrons passing by their booth. "I have arranged it all with General Strika. It will be a branch service provided by Inamorato to our target planets. Chromia and Sunstorm will pose as escorts when they'll actually be our liaisons to the leaders of these planets."

"General Strika," Starscream argued in a whisper, scooting closer so Megatron was sure to hear him, "is in business with an Autobot war veteran. How could she possibly use this place to our advantage?"

"Because," replied Megatron smoothly, propping his arm on the back cushion, his fingers now within reach of Starscream's wing, "she is both clever and reliable. An unfortunately rare combination of qualities in the Decepticon ranks."

Really. REALLY. He had to go all passive-aggressive? Well, two could play at that game. "An army is only as good as its leader. You must not expect more than you can give." Without a second thought for his actions, Starscream leaned in, touching his wing to Megatron's hand. A fearless display...to show he...wasn't afraid...of Megatron. That's all it was.

Megatron's smile returned slowly as he took a long drought from his glass. He then swirled the contents in it, watching the plastic sword dance around for a moment before setting the glass down and lifting his gaze. "Tell me, Starscream." As naturally as his name rolled off the gladiator's glossa did his mighty finger begin to stroke the lower edge of Starscream's wing, a pleasurably sensitive spot that only Megatron knew about. "What do think of my plan?"

Starscream tried with all his might not to outwardly show how good the caresses felt, but he was powerless against the tingling joy coursing through his wing and permeating his body. He dimmed his optics in response, opening his mouth to speak but only managing something between a sigh and a moan with a trace of a growl. There were no words to respond with, at least none Starscream was willing to say aloud. He instead thrust his lips against Megatron's mouth with urgency, his systems flashing briefly with a cautionary alert before the warmth and the familiar contact put his body at ease. It never made sense how a union so toxic could feel so right, but it did and it was felt mutually as Megatron kissed Starscream back with equal urgency.

Their mouths writhed and their moans mingled in a sloppy suspension of time and common sense. Megatron was warm and accepting but also strangely rigid and unsure, much to Starscream's wonder. He dared an exploratory hand on his leader's thigh and squeezed tightly, hoping to awaken the beast he both feared and craved. Megatron jerked his knees together, much to Starscream's disappointment, so Starscream's hand ventured up and his talons began seeking the seams of the hot black codpiece.

Megatron stiffened and not in the anticipated way. He broke their eternal kiss with a grunt and slapped Starscream's hand away. He then shoved the jet onto his back, wings knocking over their drink glasses, and forced his knees apart with an angry hand. Starscream thrilled at what was to come, sensor net electrified, components swelling behind his interface panel.

Megatron forced open Starscream's panel and mercilessly entered him with his fingers. They were rough and angry and clearly on some kind of emotionally-charged mission. Starscream yelped in excitement, throwing his head back and clawing at the table's surface. He lolled his head and laughed as Megatron pumped him with a novice rhythm. The poor mech was so off his game it made Starscream giddy. He hadn't realized how loud his laughter had become until Megatron slapped a cupped hand over his mouth.

Starscream watched his leader, bewildered as the mech loomed angrily over him, pleasuring him yet not finding any pleasure himself. It was kind of pathetic, which only heightened Starscream's pleasure. He may be the one pinned on his back, but he clearly had the power here. He basked in the thought and rode with the clumsy rocking, dimming his optics and reaching into his cortex for every possible and now tangible thrill, his charge building like his foreseeable empire. Grand skyscrapers rose from the dust of Kaon's defeated past. Energon flowed flowed freely through every thriving industry. The skies were alive with jet engines fat with excessive fueling and in the middle of it all was Starscream seated on an elevated throne, surrounded by bots eager to serve him. The vision brought a climactic burst of laughter that stretched across his imagined skies like far-reaching jet streams.

Then, all the fanciful images faded when Megatron ex-vented a waft of frustration across Starscream's cockpit, but it did not spoil the mood. The hot air only added to the jet's numerous tingling sensations. He let out his own decompressing exvent, only his was laced with a sigh of ultimate satisfaction.

Megatron abruptly pulled out of him and slammed his panel shut. He then shoved the limp jet off the table and into the booth, snatching up a napkin to clean his fingers with. Starscream smiled hazily.

"This meeting is adjourned I take it?" Starscream nestled into the booth, keeping his legs propped on the table.

Megatron didn't say anything, didn't even make optic contact as he tore open the curtain and stormed toward the exit.

Chromia appeared right away, chasing after him, blabbering a string of desperate questions and offerings, all of which were in vain. Megatron disappeared through the exit and the befuddled escort was left standing.

Starscream watched it all from his shameless sprawl in the booth, crossing his legs and twining his fingers behind his head. He grinned tauntingly at Chromia as she looked in his direction, her azure optics practically turning green as the sight of Starscream told all. Fists clenching, she turned on her heel and stomped off, shooing away the thirsty calls of patrons and slamming the storage room door behind her. It was the most beautiful sight Starscream has scene since the last time he passed by a mirror. That'll teach that foolish wench to mess with his plans.

Starscream was feeling good in every way, despite his wonder at Megatron's weird behavior and abrupt exit. Everything was finally working in his favor and he wasn't about to let the old fool's issues spoil that. He couldn't wait to tell Blackarachnia about it, omitting certain details of course. He wondered if he should comm her right now. Even if she was still mad at him and acting weird herself, she would like to hear good news right? Perhaps she would even tell him how her meeting with Megatron went.


	63. Routine Maintenance

**Routine Maintenance**

_by Toyz_

Arcee stood at the base of the ladder, steadying it, looking out over Kaon's outskirts with disinterest. This afternoon had found Cybertron's finest madam playing Light Bulb Supplier to Cybertron's other finest madam, who stood at the other end of the ladder, replacing burnt out bulbs from Inamorato's gaudy neon sign.

It was a dull afternoon indeed, and not because Arcee was doing routine maintenance on her brothel, but because her co-owner was unusually quiet and lacking in flirtatiousness. Arcee usually enjoyed these times when she and Strika took inventory of their prided establishment, making necessary fixes and upgrades, discussing their ever-growing revenues with excitement and plotting future events to drive their business that much higher on Cybertron Weekly's Top Hot Spots lists. These afternoons used to present a surprise or two, sometimes involving the testing of Parlour Trix's latest shipment, but sadly that hadn't happened since before Strika took time off to plan her bonding ceremony.

"Vatch out!" Strika warned from above.

Arcee hopped back as a runaway bulb shattered at her pedes.

"Is everything okay up there?" Arcee called up the ladder to the curvacious legs and aft of the massive Decepticon general, which is all she could see of her partner besides those beautiful buxom arms that steadied the battletank's body against the large sign.

"Is fine," said Strika. "Bulb!"

Arcee sighed and made her way up the ladder, new bulb in hand. At least that little slip-up pulled a few more words from her partner than 'bulb', which was all she had heard from the madam since they came outside.

She handed Strika the bulb but didn't immediately climb back down. Strika gave her a questioning look. "Is all I need, thank you."

"Are you okay?" Arcee said, concerned.

"I said I vas fine." Strika shrugged. "Is only a dropped bulb."

"I don't mean that." Arcee moved up a step, creating more intimacy. "You've been so quiet today. What's going on?"

"Nothing." Strika averted her focus to the row of bulbs she had been working on. "You vorry about nothing. There just…nothing to talk about today."

"Oh, dinobot feathers, there's always something to talk about in our business." Arcee leaned in closer. "Are you stressed out? Because of the engagement and all?"

"Am not stressed," Strika defended. "Now move. Ve done vith sign.."

"Yes, _Madam_," Arcee sassed as she climbed back down.

They collapsed the ladder in silence and made their way inside. Strika handed the ladder to Brawn who was prepping his bouncer's station for the night. "Double-check locking dewice on veapon closet," commanded Strika. "I see Lockdown taking too much interest in it earlier." Brawn nodded in compliance.

"That Lockdown," Arcee remarked, following behind Strika as she headed up the staircase. "What did the two of you meet about today?"

Strika waited until they reached the balcony to answer. "He come to me looking for work."

"Again?" Arcee griped. "Doesn't he realize that we don't hire our bouncers on temporary contracts, fashioned to fit the whimsies of his schedule?"

"He not ask for bouncer job back." Strika motioned for Arcee to follow her into their shared office, which Arcee did eagerly. "He ask if we have need of his ship, and I get idea."

Arcee entered the office and Strika shut the door behind her. "A mobile escort serwice," Strika said, pleased with herself. "Good for interplanetary diplomacy, ya?"

Arcee shuttered her optics. "You…want to hire Lockdown as an interplanetary callbot?" Her tone shifted from confusion to disappointment. "And you didn't think this was worth discussing with me?"

"Not _Lockdown_," said Strika. "He fly ship. And I am sorry I did not mention it to you. Must have slipped my mind." She didn't sound very sorry. "Chromia and Sunstorm fly vith him. They good bots for serwicing high ranking leaders of allied and neutral planets. Is good for business and planetary relations."

"Since when do you care about _that_?" Arcee said, skeptical and a little pouty. "I thought I was the only one who paid attention to the headlines."

"I care." Strika was defensive. "I live on this planet too and I see how wolatile the peace is. Is good to make new friends. Besides, business is good. Is time we expand." With a resolute nod, Strika grabbed a polishing rag and exited the office, heading directly into The Classic Room Arcee snatched a basket full of various pleasure toys and lube packets and pursued her. Strika was behaving unacceptably odd and Arcee was going to figure out why.

"Let me get this straight…" Arcee stood in the doorway as Strika hurried through the polishing chore. "You want to put Chromia, Sunstorm and Lockdown in an enclosed space, bouncing around the universe, expected to build diplomatic relationships with aliens? _That_ sounds volatile."

"Ve send Blackout and Barricade along to keep them in line." Strika made for the door. "Now are you going to restock night stand or stand there flapping mouth."

Arcee laughed incredulously, moving out of Strika's way and tossing a few lubricant packets next to the small lamp. She hurriedly followed Strika into the next room.

"What's foolish is sending a ship full of 'cons outside of Cybertron to represent our business and not running it by me first."

"Vhat is wrong vith that?" Strika approached Arcee, engulfing the petite madam in her shadow, purposefully. "You never have problem employing 'cons before." "Why is zis any different?" Her tone had hardened. "Blackout and Barricade are wery loyal. They do vhatever I tell them."

Arcee's sensor net flared with arousal before intimidation set in. Partners or not, Strika was a formidable figure and a not a bot Arcee enjoyed arguing with, especially not when she resorted to bullying as a tactic. Arcee knew she couldn't compete with that.

"I suppose you're right." Arcee fled to the nightstand, her back now turned to her partner. "But you do realize that you're cutting our escort staff by two-thirds."

"So hire more." Strika shrugged, her casualness cutting Arcee deeply. The smaller femme shrank down to sit at the edge of the bed, lips pinched in candied pout, fingers fumbling idly through the basket's contents.

"I like your idea. All of it, I just...I just wish you could have discussed it with me first, like we do for everything."

It wasn't long before the heat from Strika's vents breezed across Arcee's chassis, the mixed scents of musky oils and track lubrication dominating her senses, offering a familiar comfort. The bed leaned dramatically as the larger madam sat next to the compact model, inadvertently pulling her closer.

"I am sorry, Arcee." Strika leaned forward onto her own knees, avoiding optic contact, hands wringing awkwardly. "I did not mean to exclude you from plans. Perhaps...the stress is getting to me, vhat with the engagement and ewerything else."

Arcee brightened, resting her hand on Strika's arm. "Apology accepted." The General certainly had her Decepticon moments, but there were also rare moments like these when she could could just be a femme. Arcee valued that she was one of the few bots who got to see them. "I understand you're a busy bot, but you must never forget that you can always talk to me about anything. Especially business matters."

"I vill not forget." Strika continued to stare forward, an unfamiliar remorse in her words. Arcee squeezed her arm tighter, saddened to see the effects of stress on such an impenetrable bot.

"That pretty white bot you just hire," Strika said, evasively, "he make good replacement escort."

"Wing?" Arcee let her hand slip from Strika's arm, recognizing the moment had passed. Her thoughts easily drifted to the image of her foreign new hire and his captivating amber optics. "He was only hired to serve and dance."

"Make him do pleasuring," Strika suggested.

Arcee tilted her head at the prospect. "Wouldn't hurt to ask, I suppose. He would certainly fetch a lot of new clients. In fact," Arcee felt a bubble of excitement, "if he agrees to be an escort, why don't we send him instead of the 'cons? He would make a superb diplomat. I have yet to see a client he can't charm, plus he's not on probation so we wouldn't have to get clearance from the Elite Guar—"

"That is no problem," Strika interrupted, clearly not as sold on the Mobile Escort Wing idea as Arcee. "Just explain to Magnus that foreign relations are in our best interest. Vould be more trouble getting clearance to send foreigner on foregin business then sending Cybertron residents."

"My..." Arcee withdrew her excitement. "You certainly do have all your bases covered. Clearly you have been thinking a lot about this."

Strika cycled air deeply. "Look. I said I was sorry." Her tone had now fully restored its usual edge. "I promise I von't exclude you from future planning. Like you say, stress get in my processor. I make bad choices."

"I think," Arcee said, fed up with arguing and ready for a shift of mood, "nerves are affecting you more than stress." She gave Strika a sappy smile. "You're going to bond, for spark's sake. No wonder your processor is all over the place. You're nervous."

"Pff, nerwous? No." Strika bristled. "Vell," she then exvented, releasing the tension in her shoulders. "Maybe a little." Her optics sheepishly met Arcee's and she managed to return the smile."Okay, maybe a lot nerwous."

"Ohhh," Arcee cooed, taking both of Strika's hands in hers. "I'm so jealous. Of both of you! Does Lugnut realize he's stealing you from me?"

"I belong to no bot," said Strika, firmly. "I leave only for short trip. Then I come back. Nothing vill change."

"You say that now." Arcee gave her arm a friendly shove. "Bonding will change you in ways you didn't think you would want to change, just wait and see. It's a wonderful transformation...or so I hear."

"Ve vill see." Strika dropped her gaze, trying to hide the smile that was bursting up from her spark."

"Oh, look at you." Arcee now dropped her gaze. "I wish Ratchet would come to his senses and…"

"You," Strika cut in, eager to shift the topic, "vould bond with Ratchet?"

"Yes," Arcee sighed. "But that won't happen anytime soon. He can't even ask me out on a bluming date anymore. Lost his nerve or something. Chromia said he had stopped by once and asked for me, but he hasn't come back since." She fell onto her back and tugged a pillow to her chest. "I despise waiting." She had put more than her share of time in the waiting room, and that was simply to wake up.

"Vhy don't you ask him." Strika suggested. "You are alvays going on about femme's lib and equality. Vhat's stopping you from making a move?"

Arcee lay there speechless and bit a dumbfounded.

"That is vhat I thought, hypocrite." Strika smirked. "You need less vhining and more action."

Arcee sat up on her elbows, giving Strika the elevator eye then pelting her with the pillow. "I'll show you more action, big mouth." With a quick scramble, Arcee climbed onto Strika's lap, sitting tall on her knees to bring her lips level to the General's. "Show you how to put that big mouth to some worthwhile use."

"Vhat are you doing?" Strika protested, trying to push the small clinging madam away. "I am engaged bot."

"Come on, you're not bonded yet. How about one last time?" Arcee kept trying to shove Strika onto her back but she wasn't half as strong as she needed to be, especially since the General wasn't budging. She tried a new tactic of placing little kisses up her partner's shoulder and neck, stopping to whisper in her audio. "Lugnut wouldn't mind, would he?"

"Yes." Strika strained the words out between Arcee's kisses. "He vould."

"Then," Arcee's tone dropped to a rare, conniving level, "he doesn't need to find out."

Strika moaned helplessly under her partner's caresses but eventually managed to get a hold of her senses and shove Arcee off to the side. "I am sorry." She stood up, flustered. "Do not take personally. I care about you but I have commitment to Lugnut." She scurried out the door, a sorry retreat for such a decorated General.

Arcee groaned and flopped back down to lie on her back, embarrassed and frustrated, and her engines still idling wantonly. She understood why Strika couldn't do it, but had figured there was no harm in trying, hoping her partner was game for one last compromise. Arcee had needs after all, and when a bot was immersed in the interfacing business solar in and solar out, those needs were demanding.

She fumbled her hand in the toy basket, contemplating a small studded trinket but quickly tossing it aside, unimpressed. It wasn't enough. She was a madam of Inamorato for spark's sake. She had much finer resources at hand than silly little toys.

/Brawn\\ She opened her commlink. /Can you please send Wing to the Exotic Room?\\

It was promotion time.


	64. Promotion Time

**Promotion Time**

_by antepathy_

Wing hadn't been up to the client rooms before. He'd started in the bar, and knew, intimately, the bar's serving floor, the back room, the storage basement. He'd even ventured to the DJ Skywarp's little nook once or twice. And lately, after Chromia, he'd become familiar with the dressing room, with its glitter waxes and paste-on light piping. But the escort rooms were well above his level.

Until Madam Arcee summoned him. He mounted the sweeping curve of the broad carpeted steps, his footplates sinking into the soft, muffling pile, brimming with curiosity. He knew—in theory—what went on in these rooms, but it was the particulars that seemed mysterious and, well, enticing.

He tapped hesitantly at the door of what was labeled, with an elegant, engraved panel, the Exotic Room. "Madam Arcee?" he called out, softly.

The door slid open on silkily oiled tracks. "Come in, Wing," came the pink femme's voice from within.

He entered, stopping just inside the threshold. The bar itself he'd thought luxurious, with its plush burgundy velvet and gold, but this was overwhelming: long, tall windows of cut rose-colored glass, leaded into intricate shapes, turning the light from outside into a soft, rosy glow that scattered over the rest of the room's appointments. Little blue flicker-lights stood in sconces, making the very air seem to tremble and dance over the round, rich blue bed and elegant curtains. It was more luxury than he'd ever seen in his life.

And he was aware he was staring, when Arcee moved, the room casting blue and pink glosses over her armor. His wing panels riffled in embarrassment. "Uh, Madam Arcee."

She grinned at him. He wasn't much taller than she was, but even so, compared next to her slender frame, he felt a bit large and awkward. 'I have a proposal for you, Wing," she said, pausing to make the last adjustments to a fanned out display of flavored lubricant packets she was arranging in a glass bowl. "If you're happy with where you are, though, you can feel free to say no. But I thought a mech like you might be interested in the opportunity."

"Opportunity?"He gave a confused blink."I am very happy here," he said, lamely.

"I'm glad to hear that," Arcee said. She turned, resting her aft on the night table. "I was wondering if you'd be interested in becoming one of our escorts."

"I…." The wingpanels fluttered again—the effect, Arcee thought, with a measured madam's optic, was definitely alluring. "I, well, I'd love to. But. I am. Sort of? Seeing someone."

Well if that wasn't the voice of a mech who wanted to have his energon cake and eat it too, she didn't know what that sounded like. "May I ask you a personal question, Wing?"

He nodded. "Certainly." As though he wouldn't dream of boundaries.

"How much experience do you have?" She emphasized the noun.

He gave a comely sort of blush. "I, well, I'm not inexperienced, but…"

She smiled. Oh, little jet, flying right into my hands. "I can say that this would definitely expand your, ahem," she winked, "skill set." Oh he'd make a fortune, if only he'd say yes. And she was already shaking off the last of her foul mood from Strika. "Think of it this way: you wouldn't be giving your boyfriend an amateur. He'd be getting a professional."

"Oh." She could see the wheels turning, feel him teeter, pulled by the adventure of it and the promise of learning new things. She waited, even though she was fizzing with impatience.

"I think…yes," Wing said. "I would like to try it, at least."

Arcee couldn't mask the slightly predatory edge to her grin. "Excellent." She pushed off the night table. "So, tell me, Wing, do you have any experience with femmes?"

"One of the Ascended was a femme," he said, solemnly. "Well, when she was still embodied."

"So, sexually, no."

He shook his head. "I-is that going to be a problem?"

"Not at all. Just something we can train you for." Like, right now. She could feel her valve tingle at the prospect. A femme-virgin. She moved forward, taking him by the hand and leading him to the berth. "First, let's see what you're working with."

"What I'm…oh!" He gave a nervous titter. "I, uh, I suppose that's sensible."

Sensible, and incredibly hot, she thought, perching herself on the blue rise of the bed's ramp, as Wing's nervous hands fumbled on his interface hatch. His spike sprang out, white and red with little gold edging, already glossy with lubricant.

"I, uh," he ducked his gaze, mortified, "I have been thinking impure thoughts."

"The best kind of thoughts, for this line of work," she said. Really, it was a delicious looking spike, probably the prettiest she'd seen. Whatever they did on his little monastery planet, they manufactured a lovely spike. She leaned forward, her glossa tracing a small line up the spike's underside. Even his lubricant tasted fresh and sweet. Oh he was a walking mint, really. She squeezed her thighs together in anticipation, as Wing gave a bit of a shudder above her, his hands clenching.

"G-good?" he asked.

"Very good," she said, pushing back. She spread her own thighs, winking up at him. "Fair's fair, right?" She opened her own interface hatch, revealing her valve. She'd painted it, in anticipation of a night with Strika, so the rim was a soft, petal pink, the inner lining the color of a rose. And glistening from her own desire.

Wing's optics seemed glued to the valve, his ventilation catching, hot and curious.

"Lie down, Wing," she said, tugging at his wrist, her voice a sultry purr.

He moved, and even though he was trembling with desire, managed to make the move graceful, sinking his weight onto his back on the plush blue silk coverlet.

Arcee swung over, straddling his thighs, her slick valve resting between them, little hot half-arcs against his armor, while his spike jutted just before her belly.

"Sh-should I be doing something?"

"Enjoying," she said, simply. "Clients like an obedient little escort." She reached down, tracing a hand up his spike. "Especially one with a spike like this."

He nodded, hands clutching at the coverlet.

"Now, Wing," she said, bending closer, so that the head of his spike bumped her pink belly. "This little car is going to take the jet for a ride." She hiked her hips up, sliding his spike down her belly, until it found the opening of her valve and then sat, slowly, taking that gorgeous, slick spike inside her. Wing gave a long intake of breath, like a slow-motion gasp, feeling the suppler calipers of a femme's valve rotate and squeeze around his shaft.

Oh, another femme was a wonderful thing: fingers and mouths and toys could do things no spike could do, but there was something just… primal, sometimes, really, about taking a spike, anticipating that hard burst of fluid.

Especially when you were so very obviously taking the spike, riding the white frame with absolute control. This was exactly what she needed: compliant, willing and submissive. And the way he responded, whimpering and squirming, hands hovering over her body, as though afraid, but wanting, to touch.

"Madam!" he groaned. She could feel it: feel the press of the spike against her, the rising charge and heat. Tsk tsk. Too soon, Wing. But he had warned her. She reached between her surging thighs, two fingers clamping in a tight ring around his spike's base, grinding her own motion to a halt.

Wing lay, gasping, optics closed.

"The client comes first," she said. He nodded. "If you find yourself too eager, you do this, all right?" Another nod, his hand moving between them to take the place of hers. His almost instantaneous obedience nearly tripped her over herself: she felt a rippling wash of lubricant soak her valve. "The more you hold off," she purred, "the harder the overload. And some clients like that." Really like that. A lot. Like her. Oh, Ratchet was a master at that, holding off his own overload until it was nearly tectonic. Wing didn't have Ratchet's technique, but he was here, and he was impossibly hot, the way his chassis twisted, his face just naturally falling into beautiful, wanton shapes.

She dropped her hand behind her, tickling the cover of Wing's own valve. "We'll work on this, later." He nodded, squirming his hips in impatience. She gave a hard squeeze of the spike with her calipers, a little tweak. Naughty boy, but right now, she wanted it as much as he did, so she pried his hand away from his spike and began moving again, at first slow and deliberate, then moving the straight line into a bowing arc that pushed his spike against the front of her valve, right across that sweetest, most sensitive node.

His hands came to rest on her hips, not guiding, not controlling, just feeling the movement of her body the way the angles changed, the way the armor shifted.

"Madam!" he gasped, and he moved his hand toward his spike, but she pushed it away. This time, she wanted it all the way. She changed her motion once again, adding a little squeeze at the bottom of ever arc, until Wing bucked up, hips rising off the soft berth, and she felt the hard burst of fluid against her, inside her, tripping her own overload, her valve's calipers rippling down and up the spike, squeezing it rhythmically, letting her body rest, baseplate to baseplate, against Wing's.

His spike throbbed inside her and she could feel the slippery fluid oozing down her valve's plush mesh. It was heavenly, really, sweet and sensuous and erotic.

And he knew better than to move, or say anything, until she did, his hands slack against her hips, optics lidded and dreamy.

"I think," she murmured, "you were made for this job."

He quivered at the compliment, not quite blushing, not anymore, but gratified.

Arcee lifted up, unseating the spike with a sort of regret, to lie on her back beside him. Oh she'd market him to femmes definitely. With his sweet nature, and looks and all this obedience? He was every femme's fantasy. And he was no replacement for Ratchet or Strika but as a little distraction? Oh, he hit the spot. Very much.

Wing moved beside her, levering himself onto an elbow and then lowering down, gently parting her still-heated thighs. She cocked an optic at him.

"I made a bit of a mess," he said, softly, lowering his mouth, glossa sweeping along the edge of her valve. "And I think maybe you could offer some tips."

Oh my. Well, he certainly knew his way around a valve, she thought, arching her hips up into that glossa, already probing into the velvety plush mesh of her valve. This? This was going to work out beautifully.


	65. All the Sweeter

Wing woke early—earlier than usual—the poem, in its cylinder on the berth beside him. His fingers brushed the cool metal, almost feeling the warm spark that had labored so hard over the words. It was the sweetest, kindest thing anyone had ever done for Wing, and he had the ability to attract kindness wherever he went.

This, he thought, sitting up, must be responded to. But he knew his own calligraphy—long-practiced and ornate—might make Drift feel bad. One must tread lightly, he had once read, when in the presence of wild things. Drift was strong, but…fragile, in a way, and it was that contrast, Wing decided, that caught at his spark.

But he could go to Drift. He pushed himself off the berth. It wouldn't take long to find the dojo, and he could do his morning orisons there. At least he would see Drift,right? It had been too long. He missed him, and it felt like something that needed completion.

[***]

The sun was just cresting the city's horizon when Wing landed, his toeplates light on the building's roof, across the way from the squared courtyard of the dojo. It looked nice, he thought, clean and precise and well taken care of, the colors bright even in the dimness of dawn. It must be nice to live here, like his Circle back home. Crisp and orderly and precise and peaceful. Wing felt a pang of homesickness for his Circle, and the sad/happy way they had sent him off, tears of happiness sparkling on cheekplates. As much as he loved Cybertron, his new job, all the mechs he met, he still missed them, painfully so.

It was almost time: the dawn crackled alive, the sunlight striking solar charge panels on roofs, the whole sky seeming to come alight with color and energy. He began his song, keeping his voice hushed and quiet, as quiet as the morning sun's fingers combing the night sky. It was a ritual of theirs, even though he was allowed to ignore it. In his vows, he was to experience the world, in its fullness, but he found a comfort, a tie, back to his Circle, in their small rituals.

The world stirred to life around him, windows opening, the sounds of energon dispensers cycling on. Back in the Inamorato, he knew, the courtesans would be staggering down to the small snack room off the kitchen, grouchy and grateful for warmed energon, the janitors would begin their cleaning: clinking glassware, scrubbing of countertops. And back home, the sun would be striking the crystal sculpture in the peace garden, causing the little magnetized hoops to spin and glow, as the monks shuffled to morning prayer, their throats as full of song as Wing's.

One window opened in the dojo building. And then another, and he saw, with the spark's pang of recognition, Drift: the spotless white moving in the shadows of the room.

Wing jumped down, landing lightly on the street outside. "Drift," he whispered, tasting the name.

Drift turned, startled, the mop nearly falling from his hand as he recognized the jet. "Wing."

Wing grinned, stepping closer. "I got your poem."

"Y-you did." His voice was almost a squeak. His fingers clenched on the mop, hard enough to bite into the handle.

"It was beautiful." Wing rested his hands on the open windowsill. "No one's ever done anything like that for me before."

A blink of surprise, honest and unguarded. "They should. Because you're so…." The voice trailed off, the optics sliding meaningfully over the jet's elegant curves. "…everything."

"We're all everything, Drift." But still, Wing felt himself blush at the compliment. Clumsy but painfully sincere was better than all the slick, practiced blandishments in the world.

Drift moved to the window, hands twisting together over the mop. "I…just…," he faltered.

"Yes," Wing said, leaning forward. He felt a tingle over his systems, like a staticky charge, thrilling and sweet. His ventilation caught the other's scent: the resonance of oil and electricity, the unique combination of charge and machinery. He felt his optics lid, his mouthplates parting.

"I just wanted…," another falter, after the momentary progress, and Wing could feel Drift leaning in, their EM fields fusing together. "Wanted…to—"

"Drift!" A deep voice, from farther inside the dojo. "Where are you?"

Drift jumped, suddenly rigid, his nasal bumping against Wing's. "Here, Master. I'll be there." His optics flicked back nervously to Wing. "I-I have to go."

It was Wing's turn to blink in confusion. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get you in trouble."

"Not in trouble," Drift said. "Not yet." A flash of a reckless grin, and he tipped forward again, his mouth bumping against Wing's—not in a kiss, but in a promise of a kiss. Behind them, the voice, querulous, calling Drift's name. Drift whispered, before whirling off into the interior of the dojo, "But you're worth it."

[***]

Drift frowned. He'd replayed the memory about a thousand times in his cortex as he went about his daily chores: cleaning, sparring, weapons maintenance, his thoughts were all on Wing. It didn't distract him, though: each time, he kept thinking about the jet, what Wing would say, or think, watching him work. Would Wing admire the line of the sword cut? Would he like the way Drift wiped down the windows?

And he stood at the calligraphy sand, working diligently at his hand, wanting to make it sure, confident, elegant. He wanted to make it like Wing, carelessly graceful, and he found himself writing the other mech's name. Wing. It had a beautiful sound to it, like flight, like the throb of a spark. He knew nothing about the jet, but the desire to know burned in his belly. He wanted to know, and he wanted to finish that kiss more than anything. The right kiss. The right way. Not hurried and bumped, but slow, drawn out, like a coasting wing.

A shadow fell over the sand. "Hrm." Dai Atlas frowned down. "Your hand is improving. Marginally." Drift looked up, startled. He wasn't used to praise. At all. Even in such tiny doses.

He ducked his head. "Thank you, master."

"It's still a scrawl I would be mortified to let a sparkling see, but at least you can improve."

The compliment squelched itself, Drift's shoulders hunching down. That was, unfortunately, more familiar. "I shall keep working, Master," he murmured, sweeping the sand clean.

"I shall see that you do," Dai Atlas said, severely.

But even that couldn't quell the warm tingle of the memory, the fact that Wing had come to him, sought him out. Maybe his penmanship was terrible. Maybe his poetry wasn't very good. But Wing had seen…something in it and had come to him, inviting a kiss. He felt his hands tremble with the memory.

[***]

It was a decacycle before Drift could get away: Dai Atlas attending some convocation of Autobots. Drift had slipped out the back, with all the silent skill of a guttermech, racing faster than his pounding heart toward Inamorato. He had been banned from drinking there; he hadn't been banned from going.

He hadn't made a plan, beyond 'see Wing'. Maybe he'd see him dance again, maybe he'd get to talk to him. Anything would be food for his starved spark.

He slipped the cover charge to the mech at the door. He'd left his Great Sword at home this time, and stripped off his smaller blades before Brawn could even ask for them, edgy with impatience.

Drift strode into the bar, optics scanning for Wing, hopefully, at the dance platform. No, there he was, seated at the bar, one elegant leg crossed over the other, laughing at something another mech said—the one who had introduced them. Drift felt a surge of jealousy. Maybe…maybe he wasn't special after all. Barricade saw him every day.

"Drift!" Wing's voice, warm and silky, and the gold optics turned to him, glowing with recognition.

And all Drift's jealousy seemed to burst into flames: there was no guilt in the jet's expression, only pure delight and a welcoming surprise. No one had ever been delighted to see Drift before. Ever.

Drift realized he had no plan beyond 'see Wing'. But the open happiness on Wing's face, the glowing recognition, propelled Drift forward, and his mouth found Wing's, covering the smile with an ardent kiss, his hands hovering over the other's chassis, as if afraid to push too far.

Wing purred against him, hooking one elegant heel around Drift's thigh, tugging him closer, his own arms wrapping the other's waist. Drift shuddered into the embrace, his own hands clasping behind the jet's shoulders. He felt a trembling happiness wash over him, electric and more potent than anything they served here. Drift pulled away, then thought better of it, leaning back into the kiss. Nothing he could think to say could be sweeter, more communicative, than his EM field, the shy probing of his glossa.

Wing whimpered against him, and for a long moment the two of them were a tiny world unto itself, longing and pleasure mingled together.

"AHEM." Barricade's pointed throat clearing. "You keep that up, we're going to make you the floor show and charge for it."

"Barricade." Arcee frowned from behind the bar. "That's not how it works here."

"How it fraggin' should work," Barricade said, folding his arms over his chassis. "You should hire me as a consultant. I work cheap."

"You scam enough free drinks already," Arcee said, tartly. "But I'm not sure you're ready for gainful employment."

Barricade smirked over his shoulder. "Depends on whose gain."

Drift had pulled away, slowly, from Wing, his hands resting on the slim white thighs, optics blue and wide. Wing was no better, his mouth curved in a tremulous smile, glossa flicking over his lips as though tasting the kiss.

Wing gave a pleased little chirr, tipping in to bump his nasal playfully against Drift's. "I should start my shift," he said, and even though Drift hated the words, Wing's voice made them into a beautiful melody. He clung to every word, poetry more beautiful than anything in Dai Atlas's files.

The meaning seeped in, and he nodded, slowly, his fingers lingering over Wing's frame, reluctant to release him. And Wing seemed in no hurry to free himself, turning his body under Drift's shy touches as he pushed off the stool.

"Please," Wing said, leaning closer, even as he reached for his tray, straightening the name magnet on his chassis with a thoughtlessly graceful gesture, "I want to see you again."

Drift felt his knees wobble, as though the metal stabilizing rods had been liquefied. "Yes. Please. Always." He could hear the frantic tone in his own voice, and felt he should be embarrassed, but didn't care. Let Wing know. Why hide something so honest and real?

"Yes," Wing said, glossa flirting over Drift's one last time, before he turned away into the crowd.

Drift watched the tight pleats of the folded wings disappear into the crowd, his spark fluttering and alive, something sweet and potent singing in his circuitry.


	66. Opportunity Knocks with an Iron Fist

**Opportunity Knocks with an Iron Fist **_by Toyz_

All Prowl could manage to do these solars was work, meditate, and abide by a lonely routine that served as his sanity's safety net. There had been only one incident recently where he had felt completely at ease in the presence of another, and that had been in the embrace of a pair of mismatched arms. An innocent dance that expected nothing more of him than permission to whisk him gracefully around to the tune of a Decepticon couple's engagement party.

Nothing made sense anymore.

But Prowl was at least grateful for his routine and his employment, even though the job came with a heavy dose of irony. Aphrodite's playground was no place for a bot with a scarred image of interfacing. It was hard enough being surrounded by pleasures he was incapable of enjoying, but to top it all off he had to constantly put his troubles to the back of his mind and put on a pleasant face every time a new customer took a seat at the bar. No guest wanted a robotic bartender, so to speak. They expected charm, wit, and the occasional wise insight, a difficult task when one is running on fumes with all three. At times, Prowl felt starkly out of place as a bartender, but there was no place else he felt inclined to be. His instincts kept him here and his instincts were all he had left to wholly trust.

The bar had been vacant for the first half of his shift saving Prowl the effort of forced charm but also keeping him trapped in the vortex of his thoughts. The guests were favoring the hospitality of inanimate booths over Prowl's obviously forced niceties. What he really needed was an overcharged, motor-mouthed patron who didn't require a two-way conversation, but those never came around when Prowl wanted them.

No, instead Prowl was getting the company of a blast from his past whose direct course from the club's entrance to the bar told Prowl that the hulking tank bot had a strict agenda. If he was lucky, that agenda was to get wasted and rattle off distracting wartime anecdotes, but Prowl wasn't expecting to be lucky. As long as he's known Warpath, the bot has never gone "off duty."

"You sure come a long way since I pulled you out of the gutter all those stellars ago." Warpath took a seat, his gaze fixed hard on Prowl.

Prowl continued drying glasses and lining them up neatly, taking a deep invent and waiting for a follow-up insult that never came. He glanced up. "That was suspiciously close to a compliment." He took a step closer yet still remained safely out of Warpath's reach. "What'll it be?"

"Chemical Warfare with a twist of acetone," Warpath said without even a glance to the menu. "High proof too, not that namby pamby stuff you cycles and racers drink."

Prowl prepared the drink, contemplating what 'come a long way' was supposed to mean. He crinkled his nasal plating at the chemical mixture, recalling Bulkhead once using a similar solution as paint thinner. "By what measure have I 'come a long way?"

"What in the prickly pit is an Open Mic Night?" Warpath blurted, evasively, squinting at a flyer pinned to the bar. Prowl served him his drink, doubling up the coasters, fearing what that bile would do the bar's glossy finish.

"Strange," said Prowl, annoyed that is question was avoided, "I thought the title was self explanatory to the literate." Warpath choked. "Open Mic Night," Prowl continued, "is an event we are hosting where bots of all manner of talent can take the stage and perform."

Warpath made a disapproving noise as he wiped off his mouth. "Bots got too much free time these solars."

"What would have them do?" said Prowl.

"Cybertron don't need anymore bards and bohemians. That's just what the Decepticons want to weaken our forces."

"The Decepticons will be participating as well," said Prowl, softening his tone in hopes of cutting the tension and getting a straight answer from the bot.

Warpath snorted as he sampled his drink, no doubt drawing a mental image of Decepticons doing soliloquies. Prowl had all but given up and receiving an answer until Warpath began speaking.

"You come a long way," the tank said with an easy ex-vent, "because somehow, through the mercy of the All Spark, you're here. After dying. After a dishonorable resurrection. Then after that public humiliation."

Prowl blurted an incredulous laugh, "Please, don't be subtle on my account." Perhaps he was better off not knowing Warpath's opinion of him.

"Let me finish," said Warpath. "You're here, working. Feeding the economy of a world that keeps putting ya in the gutter. Can't say I approve of the job and how soft some 'bots are getting toward the 'cons, but at least you ain't signing on to slave away in the 'con factories that are springing up around Kaon. I know some sorry excuses for Autobots doing just that, all in the name of tolerance or some idealistic peacenik rhetoric."

"I...appreciate your...stamp of approval?" Prowl was at a loss. "But I don't follow your logic. Inamorato is a beacon of idealism, yet you feel my work here is...patriotic?"

"I wouldn't take it that far," Warpath's tone hardened, "but it is Autobot owned. I know I checked the records. That Deceptifemme that gives tanks a bad image may help run the joint, but it was Arcee's money that built it, therefore making it an Autobot joint."

Prowl nodded with understanding. He didn't agree with Warpath's opinions nor did he need the bot's approval, but he was grateful for the blunt honesty. That was getting harder to come by in Cybertron's new age of political correctness. However, he still wanted know what the bot was doing here, besides handing out skewed compliments. There had to be underlying reason for this uncharacteristic amicability.

"Tell me, Warpath, now that the war is over and the Elite Guard no longer requires your brutish expertise in recruitment, what is it you're doing to justify your judgements of how other Autobots should conduct their functioning?"

"Who says they no longer require me?"

"You're still recruiting?" Prowl was baffled. "For what? The Elite Guard has enough soldiers to occupy the entire Benzuli expanse if they so desired."

"I'm not recruiting for the EG anymore." Warpath quieted his voice and leaned in. "There's a new sheriff in town."

"What are you talking about?" Prowl dropped his volume to match.

"Kup's back in the game." Warpath's trap jaw skewed into its version of a smile. "Ever since that Dai Atlas came into the picture, Kup's been forming a splinter group, gathering ninjas from Yoketron's order and any other interested bot."

Prowl refreshed his optics and felt his spark skip a pulse. Could this be the opportunity he's been waiting for?

"So," Warpath whispered, "you interested?"

"Possibly." Prowl put a lid on his bubbling excitement, knowing there had to be a catch. "Why are you assembling? To overthrow Dai Atlas?"

"That's on the agenda, but it's not top priority." Warpath glanced around, making certain no one was in ear shot. "There's some suspicious 'con activity going down, and it's going down right here under your precious pink madam's nose."

Prowl narrowed his optics behind his visor, not quite ready to accept this accusation. Arcee had her finger on the pulse of everything that happened at Inamorato. She wouldn't be so naive as to let the 'cons conduct business behind her back.

Prowl opened his mouth to make an argument but was choked by his own logic. Perhaps he was putting too much confidence in Arcee. She has seemed distracted lately, and especially uptight. Prowl knew first hand how an unresolved sexual tension can cloud a bot's judgement. He dealt with that reality every day.

"What kind of suspicious activity?" Prowl asked, not sure if he wanted an answer.

Warpath raised an optic ridge. "Don't play stupid, kid." Prowl twitched. He could only tolerate a select few bots calling him 'kid.' "This new...inter-planetary escort service and its all-Decepticon crew should be raising all of your red flags."

"I'll admit, it is..." Prowl trailed off, afraid vocalizing his suspicions will make them true. He didn't want to believe the utopia of Inamorato might just be a pipe dream. "It...requires further investigation before we can come to any conclusion."

"Kablam." Warpath thumped his fist on the bar and smiled. "That's why we need you."

Prowl stood, rigid. "Why me?"

"You got an in that no other ninja has. I don't know why and how you got it, and I don't wanna know, but you got it and we need it."

Prowl's energon pulse kicked up a few notches. He knew exactly what Warpath was referring to and realized he had been a fool to assume his personal life was kept out of the public eye. His circuits tightened. He didn't know what to say. He wasn't about to openly acknowledge his...closeness to the pilot of the escort service. He had a hard enough time acknowledging his relationship with Lockdown himself.

Luckily, he didn't have to as Chromia bee-lined to the bar, on a clear course to antagonize. Prowl never thought he would be relieved to see her.

"Oooooo, ninjabot gossip." Chromia planted her elbows on the bar, leaning in intrusively and dropping her voice to a teasing whisper. "Let me guess. There's a new super secret handshake."

Warpath stared at her, straight-faced and unimpressed. He then offered her his hand in a seemingly friendly gesture, even paid her smile. "Yeah. Wanna learn it?"

Chromia's optics narrowed as she shifted her glance between Warpath and his hand. "I'm flattered," she drawled hesitantly before gathering the courage to accept his hand. Prowl tensed even more, knowing Warpath wasn't easily charmed by just any floozy with a sparkling paint job and an endearing smile.

Within an instant, Chromia was crumpled at Warpath's feet, dangling by her captured arm and yelping desperately.

"Know what I hate worse than Decepticons?" Warpath growled as the femme writhed in his clamping grip. "Traitors."

Prowl intervened, trying to pry his customer's iron grip from his deserving yet frail co-worker. As much as he would love to see Chromia put in her place this was breaking every major house rule. Luckily Warpath released Chromia without Prowl having to hop over the bar and play hero.

Chromia jumped to her feet, shaken and insulted, clutching her assaulted hand. "Fragging bully!" She snatched her drink tray and stomped off, leaving a trail of muttered profanities.

"That was highly uncalled for." Prowl's reprimanding words didn't match the smile distorting his mouth.

Warpath, already over the disturbance, discretely slid a small datacard to Prowl, who made it disappear into his subspace in a ninja's micro-klik. "Meet at this location tomorrow, mid-solar. The sarge'll give ya the rundown."

Prowl nodded.

Warpath returned the nod then stood up. "Thanks for the drink." He slapped his credits down on the bar. "BAM, keep the change."

Prowl watched as Warpath made his exit, each of the hulking bot's steps toward the door easing a degree of pressure. Thank Primus he didn't have to explain his...dealings with Lockdown. He wouldn't have had the foggiest idea how to approach it, mainly due to the fact that he can't explain it himself. But who would have thought his relationship with the bounty hunter would have qualified him for Yoketron's new order, a dream opportunity. Yes, irony continued to be a cruel mistress in Prowl's functioning but his instincts were telling him that this was were he needed to be. The path was finally being revealed and like all paths worth traveling, this was going to be a bumpy one.


	67. Open Mic Night

A/N: At long last, Open Mic Night is here! This is a special edition update too because it features the works of all three of us, writing our own takes on approximately the same segment of time that passes during the night.

Toyz (that's me) opens it up, setting the stage for the night and putting a new spin on an old song. Next up is antepathy's bit featuring Barricade as you've never seen him before. And lastly is a lovely little piece by Optimus Bob who puts OP and Jazz in a different kind of spotlight.

Enjoy! And be sure to catch the next chapter to get your Prowl/Lockdown fix.

* * *

**Open Mic Night, Pt.1 **

_by Toyz_

"By request of the Madams, Arcee and Strika,

"I was selected as Host to delight ya,

"On this fine evening with an even finer crowd,

"I say 'Welcome to Open Mic Night', and I say it loud."

From the spotlight-bathed stage, Blaster with his signature smoothness addressed the masses at Inamorato's long-anticipated event.

"To kick it all off, I present a special guest.

"He ain't from these parts, but he aims to impress.

From the shadows of the crowd, an impressive figure emerges gracefully onto stage, a proudly pronounced fin jutting from his helm complemented by a pair of sweeping aero-dynamic spaulders.

"So give a warm welcome," Blaster gestured toward the figure, "to this fish of flight,

"The one, the only, the incomparable, Sky-Byte!"

The audience clapped apprehensively, not sure what to expect but clearly impressed by the sharkbot's striking appearance alone. Blaster handed the mic off to him and exited the stage, joining the madams who stood just outside of the spot light.

Sky-byte waited for the claps to die down before bringing the mic to his now parted lips, which revealed a menacing set of jagged teeth. He took a long, deep invent, ripe with anticipation before finally speaking.

"What has Cybertron become," his voice was commanding, silencing the room.

"When bots and cons gather as one?

"Where the only blasters blasting is your Master of Ceremony,

"Where the only bullets flyin' are words in harmony."

He slowly stepped to the edge of the stage, creating a dramatic pause.

"Words, mech and femmes.

"Words for the processor, the memory, the spark.

"Words to tell all,

"Who come to the call,

"To hear of the fall."

Just off stage, Strika could be seen questioning Blaster, who merely shrugged and played innocent to the poet's onslaught of house rule-breaking political verse.

"That's right, I said the fall."

Sky-byte went on, either unaware or uncaring of Inamorato's number one rule.

"Peace may seem to be a resolution,

"But it is merely a delusion.

"A night sky littered with stars not flak,

"Does not mean there are not scars in the sparks of the black.

There was now a commotion between the madams and Blaster, but Sky-byte continued impervious to their chatter.

"Keep a sharp watch, mechs and femmes,

"A bot never knows what is up around the bend."

Strika stomped onto stage and Arcee scurried behind her, fearing what her partner was aiming to do. Just before the larger Madam reached the oblivous poet, who graciously soaked up his applause, Blaster zipped by both of the madams and snatched the mic from him.

"Another round of applause for our fearless finned friend,

"Who, in the true spirit of the Decepticons,

"Regards policy and rules as something to bend."

That last line got some whistles and cheers from a table of Decepticons in the back. Blaster joined in in applauding Sky-byte as he made his exit, shaking his head as the shark bot waved and blew kisses to the crowd.

"Now I think we can all agree," Blaster rapped,

"That Inamorato is the place to be,

"To kick back, to relax, and best of all..."

He dropped his tone down to a sultry level.

"To indulge you sweetest fantasy."

The crowd responded fondly and flirtily to that. Blaster struck a sexy pose before continuing on, pulling even more cat calls from the room. It was the perfect mood to set before introducing his next two performers, who had no clue they were on the list.

"So, let's here it for our femmes of the night,

"Madams Arcee and Strika, take the spotlight."

Strika froze under the spotlight but Arcee smiled with delight, gladly accepting the mic from Blaster and dragging her unwilling partner onto center stage. Addressing a crowd came naturally to a former teacher.

"Greetings, darling Cybertronians." She then shoved the mic up to Strika's perma-frown.

"Um...uh," sputtered the stage fright General. "Velcome to ze club."

"Have you tried the house special?" Arcee sang. "It's called Pink Plutonium."

"Don't," Strika blurted, stumbling into her performers voice. "It taste like mud."

The crowd laughed and Strika smiled.

"Oh for spark's sake," Arcee reprimanded, "are you even trying?"

"To tell you yes," Strika replied, "vould mean I vas lying."

More laughter from the patrons made the General's smile broaden. She looked over the crowd with satisfaction and grabbed the mic from her surprised partner.

"Ve haff other drink called Frenzied Rumble,

"It cloud your cortex and make you stumble."

The crowd cheered and some raised their glasses with a wobbly arm.

"My personal favorite," Arcee leaned into the mic, "is the Crystal City Toddy."

"Zhat's because it sparkles," Strika countered, "and make her wery naughty."

The crowd roared and Arcee stood with her mouth agape. She snatched the mic back.

"You're one to talk, dear Madam General.

"If I recall correctly, one Kaon Krusher makes you an animal."

Strika turned pink and the audience whistled at her. Arcee encouraged their praise by pointing at Strika and snarling.

Unimpressed by the charade was one of the winged dancers. Chromia made her way on the stage, greeting the madams with a slow clap then relieving Arcee of the mic.

"Enough of your banter,

"You're making us yawn,

"It's time for some real talent..."

Both madams rolled their optics, annoyed with the escort's predictable ego.

"Let's here it for our bouncer," Chromia directed a spotlight to the entrance. "The Stalwart Brawn."

Everyone's attention shifted to Brawn and a mutual relief was felt across the club as Chromia tossed the mic to him. He caught it like a boss and puffed up his chest. He then cued Skywarp in the media booth and the room quieted as it filled with a scratchy old time tune.

Brawn began snapping as he slowly made his way to the stage.

"Some bots say a mech is made outta mud,

"A poor mech's made outta muscle and blood,

"Muscle and blood and nuts and bolts,

"A mind that's a-weak and an alt mode that loads."

The patrons snapped with him.

"You load sixteen tons, what do you get?

"Another day older and deeper in debt

"Saint Vector don't you call me 'cause I can't go

"I owe my soul to the Iacon store."

The stout old Autobot stepped smoothly down from the stage and wove his way around tables as he sang on.

"I was born one mornin' when the stars didn't shine,

"I picked up my shovel and I walked to the mine,

"I loaded sixteen tons of energon coal

"And the boss bot said 'Well, a-bless my soul'

"You load sixteen tons, what do you get?

"Another day older and deeper in debt,

"Saint Solus don't you call me 'cause I can't go,

"I owe my soul to the Iacon store.

"I was born one mornin' in the acid rain,

"Fightin' and trouble are my middle name,

"I was raised in the crystals by an ol' femme lion,

"Cain't no-a high-toned Madam make me walk the line."

Brawn shot a wink to the madams. Some of the guests now joined him in the chorus.

"You load sixteen tons, what do you get?

"Another day older and deeper in debt,

"Saint Yoke don't you call me 'cause I can't go,

"I owe my soul to the Iacon store.

He returned to center stage for the last verse.

"If you see me comin', better step aside,

"A lotta mechs didn't, a lotta mechs died,

"One fist of iron, the other of steel,

"If the right one don't a-get you then the left one will."

Nearly everyone in Inamorato, both guest and employee, joined in for the final chorus, some standing and swaying their raised glasses.

"You load sixteen tons, what do you get?

"Another day older and deeper in debt,

"Sweet Primus don't you call me 'cause I can't go,

"I owe my soul to the Iacon store."

The club roared with applause and Brawn nodded firmly in place of a bow. He handed the mic off to Blaster and proudly resumed his post at the entrance.

_(Disclaimer: Sixteen Tons was originally written by George S. Davis and is being parodied without permission.)_

* * *

**Open Mic Night, Pt.2**

_by antepathy_

"Urgh," Barricade said, bellying up to the bar. Then, when no one was looking, reaching over to tap himself a cold energon draft. Hey, one of the perks of his non-job here, okay? He flashed a high wattage smile at Prowl, hefting his drink. "Sorry, my kind can't do poetry without, you know, lubrication."

"Your kind." Prowl looked dubious.

"My people." Barricade shrugged. "You know."

"I'm afraid I don't."

"Yeah, well, I'd explain it to you, but, you know, that bloviating blowfish on stage earlier sort of drilled through my ability to can." By which he meant the sensitive kind. Because he was just the picture of sensitivity.

"I…see." Prowl gave him a prim little frown, wiping up the bar under his glass. Some sorta subtle ninja hint or something. Whatever. Barricade had his drink: all was getting right with the world.

Ooooooor it would be, as soon as General Strika stopped. Because, yeah, he really, really, really didn't want those images in his cortex. Only thing worse than that would be listening to fraggin' Onslaught talk about interfacing.

Eurgh. They did not make a drink strong enough to fry that from his memory. Even the idea.

Barricade, you have a fiendish mind, he said to himself, taking a deep, deep swig. And he was supposed to talk to Madam Strika after this whole shindig. Great. Had to keep part of his cortex intact for that. Un. Fortunately.

"Oh!" He got jostled from behind, the word chirping in his audial, a slim hand steadying his arm. "I'm so sorry. It's just so busy here tonight!"

Great. Wing. All he needed. Although, at least thinking of Wing in perverted scenarios wasn't entirely tank-turning. He wasn't big on airframes, but the jet was kind of pure white sex. Currently, pure white sex balancing a tray and wearing a little name magnet with his name surrounded by little curlicues. It was impossible to hate him, and believe him, Barricade had tried.

Didn't mean he got special exemption, though. "Hey, you know, kind of jostled my drink here."

The gold optics widened. "Oh, please, let me get you another!" Wing bustled off toward the bar, intent on replacing it, without waiting for an answer.

It was…it was like he knew Barricade. Barricade felt touched.

Nah. He felt awesome.

"That the kind of scam you're running now?" Chromia tsked, sweeping by him. "Really? I mean, conning free drinks out of Wing is easier than candy from the proverbial sparkling."

"Yeah, but what the frag would I want with some nasty candy? Sparklings drool." Gross. Now, booze, on the other hand, well into Barricade-con terrain.

"You oughta be ashamed of yourself. That's all I'm saying."

"Eh, if I wanted to be ashamed of myself I'd be up there with a mic."

_Brawn is now performing his song._

Onslaught squinted across the crowded bar. "Never thought I'd see the day I missed the dancers."

"Right," Vortex said. "You hate the dancers so much." Really? Did Onslaught think he was fooling anyone? Just because the mech had too much chivalry to fawn over Chromia and the other femme dancers didn't mean Vortex didn't notice how Onslaught would go deadly quiet when one of them danced, optics glued to the spotlit pole.

"You were the one who suggested this as an appropriate venue," Onslaught said primly.

"For intelligence gathering," Vortex retorted, jutting his chin over at a table across the way, where the hero of Earth, Optimus Prime, was bent in intense consultation with an Elite Guard ninja and one of the technoorganics.

Onslaught grunted. "Wonder what they're up to."

"Nothing good, believe me." Vortex gave a moody sigh. "At least the bouncer has a good voice, though," he said, turning back to the stage.

"I'm more interested in the message of his song."

"Oh?"

Onslaught took a long sip of his drink, turning his head aside so his unmasked face wasn't visible. "Listen to it. Discontent among the Autobot victors."

"You think?"

"I know." Onslaught gave a sage nod. "Then again, hardly a mystery when Sentinel's in charge." He gave a quiet scoff. It would take actual effort to think less of Sentinel than Onslaught did.

"We going to do anything about that?" An obvious question: Onslaught did not take the 'retirement' of peacetime all that well. He wasn't the kind to make trouble, but he was definitely the kind to snuffle it out.

Onslaught nodded. "Mostly because it would be suspicious if we didn't. And right now, we don't want to be suspicious."

"Yeah, because you two talking about being suspicious ain't suspicious." Barricade, appearing with his usual stealth and uncanny sense of 'not wanted'. He plopped down on the booth's bench, reaching for the dregs of Onslaught's drink, only to get his hand slapped away.

"You better have something worthwhile to report," Onslaught said, sourly.

"Don't I always?" Right. Little joke. "Been working some sources and thus far, not a peep. They don't suspect a thing."

"Thus far."

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Keep an optic on it."

"Or three." Vortex said.

"I get it," Barricade said flatly. "Little multi-optic humor there. Think you should leave that to me unless you want me to start making copter jokes."

"I think," Onslaught said, "You need to help us be more suspiciously unsuspicious." His visor trailed over to the stage, where Brawn was basking in applause.

"Yeah, uh no. Not really a fan of the non-killing arts." He squirmed, under the combined weight of their optics.

"But you are," Vortex said, pointing at Blaster, who was taking the mic, "A fan of irritating Autobots."

Barricade frowned. Well, that was true enough. But he hated being a public spectacle. He'd always done his thing in the shadows. This was like some horrible collision of want and do not want.

And he needed a drink if he was going to pick himself out of the wreckage.

And Onslaught apparently knew that, wordlessly shoving his drink in front of the small assassin.

He was being manipulated, and he fraggin' knew it, his claws snatching around the glass, glaring his upper optics at Onslaught even as he gulped the drink.

"Come on," Vortex said. "Listen to that Autobot. Listen to his smugness."

Barricade growled, knowing they were playing him, but frag if Vortex wasn't right: Sky-Byte did have that tony, sleek voice that just flaunted education and smarm.

"I imagine it would feel good to take him down with his own weapons," Onslaught said, slightly clumsily. He wasn't as good at subtle manipulation: his tended to feel like a fist to the feels.

"You both suck," Barricade said, pausing to swallow the rest of the drink, staring at the empty glass before shoving it back at Onslaught. "Better be another one of these with my name on it when I get back."

Hey, everyone had a price, right? Barricade's was just fizzy and pink.

Barricade snatched the mic from Sky-Byte's hand. "Think we've heard enough Autobots."

"Rhyme, my purple-stamped friend. Gotta bring it in rhyme or stop wasting our time."

Really? So it was gonna be like that, huh? Well, Barricade thought, wriggling his stance and throwing his claws out in what he was pretty sure were some intimidating 'gang signs'. Eh, maybe he should have paid more attention to that 'Earth Cultures' video.

"Rhyme? Fine. I'll bring it in verse, it'll just hurt worse." He paused and there was a spatter of applause. All right. He could get the hang of this, for sure.

"Hurry up then, don't take all day, that is…unless you got nothin' to say."

"Don't rush me, mech, I'mma take my time, since you told me I gotta bust it in rhymes." He smirked. Yeah, this was gonna rock. "We should listen to Brawn and his really sad song, cause he's pointing out stuff that's really wrong. See the Autobots tell us everything's just great, while they're the ones who can't give up the hate."

"Hate? You talking 'bout hate, my friend? It's the Decepticons who won't let it end. You're the ones who can't let go of the war, you're always wanting to settle the score."

"Only score I want to settle's my fraggin' bar tab," Barricade smirked, "And not listen to any pro-Autobot blab. I'll break it down with a nip and a tuck," he took a slurp of his drink, "The truth of it all is that….Autobots suck." He held out the mic in one hand, and opened his claws, letting the mic drop to the ground.

"Barricade!"

Uh oh. Mount Strika was lumbering toward him her neon frown blazing. "Vhat you doing? Zis not appropriate for ze open mic!"

"Hey, I was just bustin' rhymes like a mad skilled…thing." A mad skilled rhyme buster backpedaling fast, claws raised.

"You bust zese rhymes some place else or I bust your head!"

Right. Barricade knew when to beat a hasty retreat. He hadn't gotten where he was by not being able to zip through crowds. That exit had his name all over it, and he? Was outta here.

* * *

**Open Mic Night, Pt.3**

_by Optimus Bob  
_

The music filled the air and the high grade was flowing. Inamorato was filled with lively chatter which wasn't enough to drown out the sound of Brawn's ballad. Mechs and femmes mingled in good spirits and Prowl was keeping half an optic on the main entrance while Brawn took over the stage much to Arcee's dissatisfaction. Shaking his helm in slight amusement at the femme's pout directed at her would-be bouncer, Prowl weaved his way through the crowds easily, nodding and smiling politely at those that called out in greeting before coming to a stop by a private booth.

"Your drinks." He stated with a quirk of his lip components at the two mechs deep in conversation.

"Prowl, thank you." Optimus smiled up at the black and gold mech, gesturing to the seat beside him. "Won't you join us?"

Canting his helm in very slight confusion, Prowl glanced at Jazz who was doing a masterful job of appearing pleased with the invite. Shaking his helm, Prowl tugged at his apron. "Sorry, I'm working but," he threw a knowing smile to Jazz, "I'm sure you two will have a good time without me. Three's a crowd after all."

Optimus nodded and rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly as he stole a subtle glance at the paler ninja who was nonchalantly taking a sip of his high grade. "Yeah you're probably right, Prowl. Don't work too hard."

Prowl left the two alone, his smile widening when he received a grateful ping from his fellow ninja over their comm. frequencies.

"OP, try your cocktail, Prowl's out done himself this time." Jazz encouraged, nudging the larger mech who was momentarily distracted by a slight kafuffle that erupted at the entrance. Jazz for the most part was a patient mech but with politics as they were and his leaving the Elite Guard, tensions had been high and things had not been as comfortable between himself and Optimus as they had once been. Sentinel had been piling on the pressure and it had made it more than difficult to grab the Prime and see where they stood. The open mic night had provided the perfect opportunity for them both to relax in each other's company, no politics, no agenda, just them, some music and good high grade and with a modicum of luck, a little bit of privacy.

"Sorry Jazz." Optimus smiled sheepishly. "Seems I'm not really with it at the moment."

"SP piling it on thick, huh?"

"You could say that again." Optimus vented air softly, taking a sip of his cocktail. "He's like one of those earth animals with a fossil."

Jazz laughed brightly. "You mean a dog with a bone?"

At Jazz's joviality, Optimus chuckled and his shoulders relaxed a little. "My earth lingo is kind of rusty."

"Yeah mech, I think that's an understatement." Jazz teased playfully. "How about," he gently prised Optimus's glass from his hand and placed it beside his on the table. "We don't talk about work tonight, hm?"

"Alright." Optimus agreed immediately, looking relieved. "What do you want to talk about? I hear you're back at Yoketron's dojo?"

"Well talking is always an option but I was thinking of something more…" Jazz's visor glowed softly as he ducked his helm, his hand resting gently on the top of Optimus's thigh as he peered up at him with a warm smile and a soft murmur. "…personal…"

"Oh?" Optimus's optics brightened and his intakes hitched slightly as Jazz's hand gave a playful squeeze of his thigh. Meeting Jazz's intense gaze, Optimus looked stunned for a few kliks. "…Ohh… I see…" He murmured quietly.

"S'alright if that's not what yo—"

Optimus caught Jazz's hand as he began to pull away, his visor flickering and gave it a fond squeeze. "-why don't you let me speak for myself, hm?" He smiled coyly, lifting Jazz's hand to press a sweet kiss to his fingers, his optics never leaving Jazz's visor.

"You got no complaints from me." Jazz whispered, visor flickering as he drew closer, Optimus following suit as the room seemed to fall away around them, their faces were so close Jazz could almost taste the sweet cocktail on Optimus's lips and he was done. Closing the distance between them he mouthed slowly over Optimus's upper lip, humming with enjoyment when the mech leaned closer, moving his lips against Jazz's own, their glossa meeting with shy tentative laps before their mouths pressed together into a tender, slow kiss, each stealing a playful taste of the other as they lost themselves to the moment.

"Mm, quite the way with words you have there, OP." Jazz quipped with a grin as they finally broke apart, Optimus's hand still cupping Jazz's cheek lightly stroking over the curve of his plating. "Might need you to do some clarifying though." He chuckled, nibbling at Optimus's lips playfully.

"Thought you'd never ask." Optimus murmured softly, stealing another kiss from the ninja.

"I do hope you have a different method of clarifying the situation to me because seriously, ew."

Both mechs froze at the familiar shrill voice and slowly turned to face the fierce blue optics of Sari's mask. The femme was stood on their table, arms folded, optics glaring at them expectantly. "Well? I'm waiting, who wants to go first?"

"Sari?" Optimus pulled back from Jazz quickly, his optics wide as he stared at the little fierce femme. "How did you get here?" He frowned suddenly.

Pointing an accusatory finger at the Prime, Sari pouted and scowled. "Don't you go changing the subject. Why didn't you tell me what was going on with you two? Both of you?" She looked between Optimus and Jazz both of whom had the decency to look chagrined at the situation.

"There's been a lot going on, sweetspark." Jazz responded gently. "There's not really been much to tell."

"Not much to tell?!" Sari trilled loudly causing the two mechs to flinch apologetically. "I'd say this THIS is something to tell." She planted her hands on her hips and glared at them. "At least Prowl calls, he's always vague on the details but he does call. Did you two forget about Earth after leaving?" Her optics glowed brighter, brimming with emotion behind her mask. "Did you forget about me?" Her voice dropped to a soft whisper, her shoulders wilting in defeat.

"Hey, Sari, it's not like that." Jazz reassured gently. "Things have been tense here is all. We didn't mean to give you the silent treatment."

"And we certainly haven't forgotten about you." Optimus added with a small smile.

Peering up at them after slumping to a sitting position on the table, Sari looked between the two mechs hopefully. "You promise?"

"How could we ever forget you?" Jazz asked, very gently stroking her back. "You're family."

"I am?"

Optimus laughed softly. "Of course you are."

"With all the nuances of family too, like walking in on a mech at the worst time." Jazz grinned, his tone lightly teasing.

"Yeah…I'm sorry guys." Sari matched Jazz's grin. "Don't stop on my account."

At Optimus's surprised splutter into his drink the trio laughed brightly and got to chatting animatedly of times' past, that was until the stage became available and Sari was up like a shot before the ninja and the Prime could stop her.

Shaking his helm as Sari sang happily into the mic, whilst ducking and dodging the agitated madams attempting to remove her, Jazz chuckled and nudged Optimus. "Got to admit, even under pressure the femme holds a tune well."

"Hmm." Optimus shot him a wry smirk and subtly took hold of Jazz's hand to give it a squeeze. "We should do this again… just me and you…"

Jazz met his gaze and a warm smile spread across his face. "I'd like that."

A loud shriek from Chromia as Sari zipped past her helm reached their audio and they turned to the commotion to find Prowl standing in front of them holding a wriggling, giggling Sari as carefully but as firmly as possible in his hands, while aiming his pointed look in their direction.

"Think we should split." Jazz chuckled, gently retrieving Sari from Prowl's grasp.

Glancing over at the approaching, annoyed madams, Prowl nodded. "That would be wise."

"Let's go femme; you've had enough fun for one cycle." Jazz laughed as headed for the exit with Optimus. "Thanks Prowl, see you later, yeah?"

"We better see you later!" Sari shouted over the din, leaning over Jazz's shoulder as she pointed a commanding finger at the ninjabot. "You have some explaining to do Mister!"

Ducking his helm with a fond smirk at the shenanigans of his dysfunctional adopted family, Prowl slipped easily through the crowd before Strika could reach him. He had also had enough for one night and was looking forward to when this night would be over.

Unfortunately, there was one last thing to attend to, something he had been dreading all night. A promise he had made to Kup. It was now time to hang up the apron and slip into a role he wasn't sure he knew how to play.

It was now time for his performance.


	68. A Regrettable Act

**A Regrettable Act**

_by Toyz_

Muffled amateur rhymes backed by Blaster's steady baseline leaked into the dank stillness of Inamorato's back alley. Parked at the end of the narrow corridor was a sinisterly angular ship, red light oozing from its open hatch.

Silhouetted sharply in that opening was the dramatic form of the captain, who ambled down the ramp pushing an empty hand truck in front of him. He wheeled it over to a collection of supply crates stacked neatly at the brothel's back door.

"What have we here?" Chromia shattered the morbid peace as she burst from the door, shimmering translucent streamers dangling wistfully from her clamped wings and blowing in the evening breeze. "The mighty bounty hunter has lowered himself to manual labor?"

Lockdown loaded some crates onto the hand truck without even so much as a flinch in Chromia's direction. She stared at him expectantly, hungry for any shred of a reaction but he kept on with his task. It wasn't until his back was turned and he was pushing a fully loaded cart back to the ship that he responded to her.

"Shouldn't you be on stage?"

"It's Open Mic Night." Chromia trotted behind him. "Not really my thing."

"Right." Lockdown drawled. "You'd be the star of Open Leg Night."

"Damn right, I would!" She skipped ahead of him and sprang up on the cart, mounting the stack of crates. She then leaned suggestively over the hand truck's handle, lowering her vocals to a sultry level. "I'd be heavyweight champ a'that business."

"Get off." Lockdown shoved her out of his line of sight, unimpressed. "Not my type."

Her aft hit the ground with a thud but she scrambled to her feet, attempting to restore her composure. "Silly me, how could I forget." She sassed him hard, dusting herself off. "I'd have to get a black and gold paint job and permanently lodge an iron rod up my aft to strike your fancy."

Lockdown shrugged, pushing the load up the Death's Head's ramp.

"It's not that I wouldn't frag ya," his voice echoed from the ship's cargo hold, mixing with the sounds of shifting crates. "I would if you really wanted it. Hell, most femmes do." He strolled back down the ramp with an empty cart, clearly pleased with himself. "I'd just never pay for it."

"Dream on, pistonbreath." Chromia gave his arm a hefty shove as he passed by her. "The only reason you wouldn't frag me is because it might spoil what little chance you have with the stiff of the century."

She pursued him back to the stack of supplies, even helped him load a crate. Lockdown went back into silent mode.

"It's a good thing our mission is covert." Chromia went on. "If Prowl caught wind of your association with Mega—"

Lockdown cut her off by slamming a crate down noisily.

"…tron?" Chromia chirped.

The bounty hunter grabbed her by the collar and pinned her to the wall, his ghostly face remaining expressionless. "If this is how it's gonna be on our voyages then expect your nosy little aft dumped off on a remote asteroid in the gaseous Blot Nebula."

"You wouldn't dare." Chromia spoke through strained vocals, still sporting that cursed smirk. She was supposed to be more frightened. "Strika would have your ugly head on a—"

"I'll say it was an accident," Lockdown interrupted. "And I'll bet those clones will back up everything I say."

Chromia opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out but frustrated noise. Lockdown released her, satisfied, quelling his temper with a roll of his shoulder. He turned back to his supply cart.

"Fraggitall, I hate those clones." She fussed with her wing streamers, smoothing them out one by one. "Would you believe, the other day, Sunstorm actually had the audacity to—"

"I don't care." Lockdown barked over his shoulder. "Look sister, the price for my company is to shut the frag up and help load the ship, emphasis on shut the frag up. If ya can't manage that, then go chatter the audios off another poor son-of-a-glitch. Hell, some overcharged idiot drownin' in bad judgment might even pay ya for it."

Chromia now made an offended noise and grabbed an empty glass bottle from the recycling bin, chucking it at Lockdown and nailing him square in the back.

"You're a real afthat!" She shouted after him. "Like, the genuine, original granddaddy of afthats that pathetic little apprentice afthats aspire to be one day. I don't know what Prowl sees in you."

That last comment stopped Lockdown in his tracks. He turned around, his painted face a picture of intrigue. "Did you say…'sees', as in…present tense?"

Chromia wasn't around to answer the question. There was only Inamorato's back door slamming behind her.

Lockdown stood, contemplatively, allowing himself a moment of hopeful thought. When he turned back to the supply cart, he nearly jumped out of his chassis as Swindle had seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

"Whoa, hey there," the dealer sang out." Getting a little jumpy in our old age are we?"

"Fraggin' pit, Swindle."

"Are you still hung up on that scrawny little ninja?" Swindle shook his head, pityingly.

"Never mind that." The hunter exvented then pushed his cart up the ramp, motioning for Swindle to follow him. "You're early."

"I'm punctual," Swindle corrected, "something you should be too now that you're working for the Big Gun." He took in the sights of the ship's interior instead of offering Lockdown a hand at unloading crates. "Yanno, it wouldn't hurt to upgrade your storage compartments with, oh I don't know, something that doesn't announce OG Smuggler to any interested law enforcement bot?"

Lockdown groaned, the kind of groan an old bot does when doesn't have an argument.

"I know just the place that'll give you the best deal too, little free trade zone called McColama, nestled between the planet of Junk and the Nebbie border."

"I know where Mac's is."

"Terrific! Make sure to tell him I sent you. Hopefully by sending a little business his way, he'll overlook that little scam I—"

"So which organic planet the big guy assigned you to?" Lockdown cut in, uninterested in the long-winded 'cons entire dealing history.

"Organic?" Swindle chortled. "I'm not going to an organic planet. The Tin Tyrant's put me in charge of The Scavenger Hunt."

"The what now?" Lockdown propped an elbow on the cart, both annoyed and interested by this new information.

"I call it The Scavenger Hunt." Swindle boasted, pulling a datapad from his subspace. "He gave me this list of rare machine parts that he knew only me, with my universally renowned reputation, would be able to track down and procure, for a bargain, naturally."

"Gimme that." Lockdown swiped the datapad from Swindle's grasp and read over it with a series of nods and wordless noises.

"It's actually uh…" Swindle fidgeted nervously, checking down the ramp to make sure no one was around. He lowered his vocals to a whisper. "It's classified information."

Lockdown tossed the pad back to the dealer, who caught it clumsily. "I shoulda known by all the organic slag he's asked me to fetch that he's building another converter." This new information made Lockdown uneasy.

Swindle stowed the now precious list back in his supspace. "Don't you dare go blabbing any of this to that ninja crush of yours."

Lockdown pushed past the dealer with an empty cart. "Ain't sayin' a word to anybot."

"You better not," Swindle warned, following behind Lockdown. "Megatron will skewer us first and ask questions lat—"

Both mechs froze as they heard Inamorato's back door creak open. "Scram!" Lockdown ordered a gravelly whisper, not waiting to see who it was.

Swindle leapt down from the ramp, whirled into alt-mode and disappeared into the urban blackness. Lockdown continued pushing his cart along, playing it cool, until the mystery intruder came into view. He then slowed his pace at the sight, his circuits flaring and his joints tightening. He took a deep invent.

"Who was that?" Prowl inquired, looking down the alley as he approached.

"Cyberweasel," Lockdown blurted awkwardly. "Escaped from the zoo." Realizing the ridiculousness of his statement he attempted to recover by bee-lining his cart for the supply stack. "What're you doing out here?"

Prowl thankfully overlooked the weasel comment but unfortunately began assisting the hunter with loading the cart. Of all times for Prowl to offer his company, why did it have to be now? "Chromia informed me that you might need some help."

"Did she now." Gaze cast anywhere but on the ninja, Lockdown responded defensively. "Find that hard to believe." Prowl signed, but continued to load crates. "Don't worry about it. I got it."

"Don't be silly." Prowl argued coolly. "Your loading time will be cut in half with my help."

"Trying to get rid of me quicker then?" Lockdown played his most stubborn cards which, wasn't too much of a stretch from normal circumstances. "Probably better that way."

"Lockdown," Prowl pleaded with a hint of annoyance. "Please don't be like this."

Lockdown plopped the last crate on top of the rest then rolled his shoulder back to pop an ever-tightening connector cable. "How'm I supposed to be, Prowl?" He turned the cart and headed for the ship, not sticking around for answer.

Prowl bit back a noise of frustration then pursued. "I did not come out here to argue."

"Then why're ya here." It was hardly a question.

"I merely…," it was a battle for Prowl to keep his tone free of his rapidly growing irritation. "I just want you to know that I think what you're doing...is honorable."

The words stabbed right into Lockdown's gut.

"Well, despite the fact that…" Prowl continued a little nervously, "you'll be subjecting alien customers to the likes of Chromia in the name of interplanetary diplomacy…"

The humor in that comment, and Prowl's damnably cute awkwardness made the situation that much harder.

"All I am saying," Prowl wrapped it up, "is I think it is commendable, honest work."

Lockdown stopped at the base of the ramp, taking a deep invent, regrettably resorting to pull from his unhealed sparkarche in order to maintain the façade. He had to do whatever it took to hide his true mission from Prowl. And if that meant using their last encounter, that...infuriating rejection as an excuse, so be it.

Lockdown turned a cold glower to the beaming ninja. "Thank you for your stamp of approval. Now I can finally get some proper recharge, knowing my career choices meet your standards."

"That is not what I meant." Prowl's tone dropped to angry depth.

"Then what did ya mean, kid?" Lockdown stepped closer, blocking the smaller bot's view of the ship's cargo bay. His processor raced for the right words to keep the ninja off of the ramp and hopefully fleeing back inside soon. "Bein' the madams little errand bot suits me better than hunting? That you feel better associating with a chauffeur then a mercenary?"

"Stop putting words in my mouth." Prowl stood his ground despite Lockdown's intimidating proximity. "I meant only to say that…well that I'm…" Prowl lifted his chin assuredly, "I'm glad we are still working for the same employer."

Lockdown stood silently, attempting to read that unreadable blue optic visor.

"Have you nothing to say on the matter?" Prowl spoke confidently.

"What's to say?" Lockdown parried.

Prowl started to crack. "Why must you be so difficult? I am trying to have a proper conversation with you."

"Fine, let's converse." Lockdown, taking the path least difficult, decided to make a game of the situation. "Whattya think of that there open mic night? Nice little break from the routine?"

"It is highly obnoxious." Prowl was quick to play along, but clearly not pleased about it. "Routine does not bother me. Why did you take this job?"

"Pay was too good to pass up."

"I know for a fact that is false." Prowl shot back answers faster than Lockdown could conjure up responses.

"You ain't seen my contract. You don't know." Lockdown was faltering.

"I don't have to. It is common knowledge that madams pay minimum. Only a fool would take a position that didn't allow tips."

"Here's a tip for ya," Lockdown warned, "stay outta my business."

"I believe," Prowl wouldn't' back down, "you accepted the position with ulterior motives."

Lockdown froze, his processor scrambling for a defensive response. He could feel his white flag threatening to rise and was already working out strategies of avoiding Megatron's wrath. And Prowl's wrath. Damn this clever little ninja. "If ya already know the answer, why'd ya ask?"

"Because I want to hear you say it." Prowl took a step closer, close enough that his exvents were felt on the musclecar's abdominal plating. Lockdown took a sharp intake, and Prowl continued with a softer tone. "I would really…like to hear you say it. Like you had said a while back, when you applied for the bouncer position."

A wave of realization washed over Lockdown's rigid chassis. Prowl didn't know about the mission at all. He wasn't out here as an Autobot interrogating a criminal. He was out here as the Cyber-Ninja that this old bounty hunter had shared so many moments of kinship with, and he was recognizing them, openly. Lockdown's gut twisted into excitable knots. But he also grew frustrated. Fragging kid was a solar late and credit short. Just his luck.

Lockdown's spark now ached and it reverted the twist in his gut back to the unpleasant one. He had no choice but to be a traitor to his own feelings...to use the one pure thing in his functioning as a tool of deception.

"It's," the words were impossible, but they still came. "It's another way to stay connected to ya."

There was most certainly a special place in the pit for mechs like Lockdown.

Prowl stood frozen. It felt like a vorn before he spoke. "Then you're not angry..." He stepped in close and lifted his long slender fingers to rest upon Lockdown's hollow brand, just above his spark chamber. "About the other night?"

Lockdown shuddered. Suddenly the anger he wanted to feel about being rejected was melting away with one simple touch, one innocent point of contact. Prowl deserved so much more than a bitter spark and this damned act of deception. "Nah, kid. I get it. You're needed here on Cybertron. Autobots need you. Dojo needs you." His one good hand came up to rest on Prowl's before he could tell it not to.

The blue optic visor dimmed to a less icy glow, and the slender fingers easily entwined with the thicker purple ones. "Do you…need me?"

Prowl's words resonated strangely with Lockdown. They were unexpectedly forward, and desperate. He didn't know how to answer. Didn't know what the kid wanted him to say. Perhaps he was over thinking it. Perhaps the situation was much simpler than his paranoid old processor was leading him to believe. Perhaps he was ruining a perfectly good moment by overanalyzing it.

That simply wouldn't do.

Without anymore thought, Lockdown dipped down to connect his mouth to the smoky grey one. He didn't need words to answer the questions. His lips alone would manage just fine.

Prowl jolted in surprise but it wasn't long before his lithe body relaxed and his mouth parted to accept the kiss. He wrapped his arms around the thick studded neck and deepened the kiss to grinding state of long-suppressed want.

Their mouths danced combatively, fighting for the best angle that allowed the deepest possible penetration and complete indulgence in the others forbidden fruit. They alternated their moans and pulled each other closer with every sharp intake. Lockdown desperately relished every warm point of contact where black and gold plating met black and green. He never thought he would get to feel this again.

Prowl kept one arm wrapped tightly around Lockdown's neck while his opposite hand traced over tribal tattoos. He had never, in all his functioning, met a mech like Lockdown, and probably never would. He gasped hotly when Lockdown's hook guided his lower back flusher against the toxic green alloy. Logic be damned at moments like these when his spark completely disregarded his better judgment.

This was not part of the act.

A chill ran down Prowl's back struts. He broke the kiss and loosened his hold on Lockdown's neck, pedes lowering from their tip-toed reach, his head bowing. Lockdown withdrew as well, seeming to also sense that only the moment should be put to bed, and nothing else.

"I should," Prowl spoke meekly, taking a step back, cool air filling the gap forming between their contact, "get back inside." His arms slid regretfully down the armored shoulders, hands resting momentarily on the heated, thrumming chest before they withdrew to his cooling sides.

"Yeah." Lockdown spoke softly, almost a whisper, his hook retreating to his own side, but his hand still lingering at Prowl's cheek, fingers carefully caressing it. "You probably should."

When Lockdown withdrew his touch, Prowl took that as his cue to leave, taking in the sight of his...lover? before turning and walking away, knowing the studded silhouette would be burned on his processor for solars to come.

As would the quick glance he stole of the ship's suspicious cargo, not to mention the use of Lockdown's ridiculously outdated smuggling compartments. Did the old mech think he was stupid? It was without a doubt a disheartening, sparking sinking sight that confirmed everything Kup has suspected about the mobile escort service.

Prowl's thoughts were now swimming, drowning even, unwilling to accept that a kiss like that could follow such blatant deception, on both sides. He couldn't even manage a farewell. Just drifted back inside, down the brothel's employee-only corridor, and through the door leading into the musical main room, where he knew Kup was waiting for his return.

He took a seat across from the old veteran, whose crinkled mouth chewed expectantly on that Cy-gar. Slipping back into his most dutiful role, Prowl straightened in his chair and took a deep intake.

"Your suspicions are confirmed, Sergeant." Prowl's vocals were uneven. "There is more than meets the optic to this mobile escort service."

"How can you be sure?" Kup asked.

"Because I know when I am being played."


End file.
